Éan Beag
by Rhanon Brodie
Summary: "Oh, perfect," Murphy fumed at Connor. "Ye get a good Irish lass an I get a she-devil that lies about her name and is probably workin' for the Black Irish."He never really did learn anything about her before. NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Here it is, black and white and angsty all over. Well, maybe not all over. But plenty of lies, deceit, guns, booze, sex, more guns, Irish, Italian, Russian, some more lies, deaths, more sex, more booze, etc. A slow burn of a story, building through from before the events of BDS, through the film, and the following weeks until the boys hop ship to Ireland. I own everything you DO NOT recognize and beg forgiveness for any flaws that may have been prevented by a Beta. I don't believe in Betas, I just believe in me. Some reference to actual bars in Boston and surrounding area, but geographics may be altered. I've only been to Boston once and while I drove past Copely Plaza, I didn't take any pictures. _

_If you like it, great, let me know by either a review or a subscription, preferably both. I answer all PMs so if you have a question, a comment, etc that you want to discuss, just drop me a line._

* * *

Tuesdays at _Grayson's_ are always slow. They are even slower than Mondays. On Mondays, there is at least hockey. Tuesdays are dull; not even the bar special (Mexican imports for four dollars) can lure the customers in. Sure, they aren't completely empty: Wren recognizes at least three guys that are connected to the Russian mob sitting at one end of the lounge. They're currently being eyeballed by a group of wiseguys that are no doubt on Yakavetta's payroll. She really hopes that, given the public and centrality of the place, they keep to their ends of the bar and not start any shit.

Between pouring beers and whiskey, and the occasional rum and coke, Wren rearranges the beer cooler and inspects mugs, removing chipped and etched pieces and hauling new, shiny glassware from the back to the front. She's lugging back half a tray of rocks glasses when she hears her name ring through the bar. She nearly drops the tray when she recognizes her youngest brother breeze into the lounge.

She stares, frozen on the spot, as Nate Abernathy makes his way around tables and plunks himself at her bar, a mile-wide grin plastered on his face. She hasn't seen him for a _very_ long time, had wanted to distance herself from Nate and his questionable habits and acquaintances. He spends half his time gambling, and the other half hustling to pay off debts. Wren sighs. She had hoped that she had left it all behind in Chicago, but looking into her brother's wild gray eyes, she guesses that he had brought enough trouble for the both of them, and dumped it on her front door.

"What are you doing here?" Wren asks flatly, setting the tray down a little too hard. The glasses clink together.

"Is that any way to greet your baby brother after not seeing him for two years?" Nate grins and taps the Budweiser handle in front of him. "Make it a pint, would ya?" He turns around in his stool, sizing up the bar. He whistles lowly and turns back to his sister. "Nice place. How long have you been here?"

"Obviously long enough for you to track me down," Wren growls, throwing open the cooler and pulling out a frosted glass. She pours her brother a pint with too much head and drops it on the coaster in front of him. "Five twenty-five."

Nate's fingers pause as he curls them around the glass, and he raises a pale blond eyebrow at his sister. "Put it on a tab," he answers, raising the glass.

Wren's hand flashes out, palm down, and covers the mouth of the glass. "I'm not fucking stupid, Nate. Cash only." Her gaze grows steely.

Nate's own stare matches hers, but after a moment, he chuckles, shrugs, and with his free hand reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a wad of folded bills. He throws it on the bar, pries Wren's fingers from his glass, and drinks deep.

Wren stares at the stack of cash and then eyes her brother carefully. "Jesus, Nate, who'd you kill?"

Nate swallows his beer, chuckling. "I made a fat stack on last week's Blackhawk game. Thought I'd come and pay my big sister a visit, see how Beantown was treating her."

Wren fiddles with the taps for a moment. "I thought that after your last _loss_ you would lay low with the gambling."

"And I did," Nate says with a shrug. He takes another swig of beer. "But I ran into Pete Wilson last month. He knows a guy who knows his stuff. Got lucky once…"

"And you decided to press that luck as far as you could," Wren finishes.

Nate grins. "Hasn't run out yet."

Wren scowls. "But it always does." Her attention is grabbed by one of Yakavetta's men waving to her and while she is relieved to leave the company of her brother for the moment (before she reaches across the bar and punches some sense into him), she takes her time getting to the table of Italians.

She listens half heartedly as they cracked jokes, and smiles when she was supposed to, but she keeps one eye on Nate. It doesn't take long for another man to enter the bar and join her brother. She finishes taking drink orders and heads back to the bar.

"Hey, sis, I want to introduce ya to someone."

Wren blows a strand hair from her face as she prepares her drink order. "Kinda busy here, Nate." She doesn't bother looking up and instead loads her tray and moves back out to the lounge. When she is finished at the Italian table, she moves across the bar, heading for the Russians. She breezes past Nate and his companion, but is yanked to a halt. She stares down at her brother's hand on her arm and then glares up at him.

"Don't be rude," Nate growls, shoving Wren in front of him to face his companion. "Now, like I said, I want to introduce ya to someone. This here is Tommy Callahan. Tommy, this is my big sis, Wren."

Tommy Callahan nods and shifts his brown eyes over Wren. "When you say _big_," he begins, the corner of his mouth going up and pulling a dimple in on the way.

"Older," Nate clarifies with a chuckle. "She's tiny, but looks are deceiving."

"Nice ta meet ya," Tommy greets, holding his hand out.

Wren holds up her tray with one hand and her pen with the other. "You'll excuse me if I don't shake your hand."

She feels Nate's fingers curl harder into her bicep and he gives her a small, quick shake. He opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off by a heavily accented voice.

"Hey! What takes you so long?" One of the Russians calls out.

Wren glances over her shoulder. "_Ostýn_," she answers. There is a series of surprised grumbles from the table, and one of the men laughs, elbowing the man that has called out to her. She glanced to Nate and Tommy. "If you'll excuse me?" She wrenches her arm from her brother's grasp and heads to the Russian table.

"Where does a girl like you learn Russian?" The biggest of the bunch speaks, a hulking man with a shaved head and a dark beard. His fingers are laden with heavy gold rings, and his leather jacket creaks as he moved.

"A girl like me?" Wren echoes with a sneer. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Boris – or whatever his name is – grins. "You are not Russian," he shrugs.

"And you're not English, but hey, look at you, talking the talk. You guys want another round?"

There is some general ribbing in 'Boris'' direction, but the general census is that they will all have another round of vodka. She clears the empty glasses and plucks the almost overflowing ashtray from the table, and then moves back to the bar.

"You want something to drink?" Wren asks Tommy, as she free pours vodka for the Russians.

"I'll take a beer, if ya please. Keith's is fine."

Wren nods, her attention now torn three ways – to the Italians in the corner, to her brother and his Irish friend, and to the Russians who are eyeing her suspiciously. She puts Tommy's beer down in front of him and gives Nate a pointed look as he pays right away.

"So Tommy knows this bar," Nate begins, drumming his fingertips on the bartop.

"No." Wren shakes her head, not wanting to hear _anything_ about Nate or his buddy, or this bar his buddy knows.

"Oh, come on, Wren. You used to be fun. Remember all the trouble we got into?"

Wren flicks her gaze to Tommy and then leans close to Nate, their noses almost touching. Her eyes narrow. "Think I'd forget that? You're just as big of an idiot as you have always been, Nate. I'm past that point in my life. I'd appreciate if you'd just get up and walk away." The mention of her past has her stomach clenching and all she wants is for Nate to leave, to take Tommy with him, and for the two opposing mobs to pay their tabs and leave, too.

"How's me favourite girl?"

And just like that, her quickly souring mood turns light, and Murphy is pulling up a stool at the far end, having come in from the restaurant side of the place. Wren watches as Tommy stares at Murphy for a moment, and then turns to Nate and speaks in hushed tones. Wren forces a smile in Murphy's direction and makes her way to him.

"I hate Tuesdays," she mumbles, setting a pint of Guinness down in front of Murphy.

Murphy laughs, and takes a deep drink. "I know," he says, because he does know, and he finds it charming. He nods in the direction of Nate and Tommy. "Who's sitting in me spot?"

She shakes her head wearily. "No one," she lies, and it is the first of a hundred more to come.

"Oh, aye? Seem pretty interested in ya." He stands from his stool and grabs his beer, intent on finding out who the two men sitting at the taps are.

"It's nothing, Murph," Wren catches his sleeve and pulls. "Just a couple of guys in from out of town. Nothing better to do on a Tuesday afternoon."

Murphy looks at the two men a little longer. "I don't know who the other fella is, but the one with the dark hair? That's Tommy Callahan."

The admission brings Wren's eyes to his. "And?"

Murphy slides back into his stool, one eye on the pair and the other on Wren. "He's a knuckler for the Irish."

Wren raises an eyebrow. "I don't know if I follow…"

"Russians have soldiers. Italians have wiseguys. Irish have knucklers."

"Oh," is all Wren says. Her brain goes a mile a minute, this new revelation confirming that Nate has indeed found himself eyebrow deep in a new kind of trouble.

Murphy studies Wren for a moment, noticing the downturn of her mouth, the distracted look in her eyes. "Hey," he calls softly, reaching across the bar and touching her chin with his thumb. "Y'alright?"

"Tired," Wren smiles softly. "I'm done here in a few hours but I don't know if I'm up for going to McGinty's."

Murphy nods, understands. "Guess I'll break the news to Connor. Though I'm sure he won't mind spendin' the entire evening alone wit' Pam." He drains his glass and stands. "How much do I owe ya?"

Wren waves him off, rolling her eyes. "Do I _ever_ charge you?"

"Just bein' polite, girl," Murphy grins. "I gotta go. Told Rocco I'd meet up with him for a beer."

Wren shakes her head, gesturing to the bar. "And what's wrong with this place?"

Murphy looks to his right, at the Irish knuckler and then the table of Russians. He then looks to the left, to the Italians, and back to Wren. "It's kinda like a UN conference in here," he says with a grin. "'Sides, I just came here for you. The beer was a bonus. Can I come by later?"

"Yeah. I should be home around six."

"I'll see ya later, then." Murphy winks and shrugs into his coat, and then heads for the door.

Wren does not miss her brother's gaze following Murphy, nor does she miss the curious stare Tommy Callahan shoots her. "Got a thing for the Irish, lass?" he calls out with a bit of a leer.

"Got a thing for meat packers," Wren shot back. "You drinkin' that beer or are you just gonna peel the label and make a mess for me?"

"That your fella?" Nate interrupts, glancing to the window and following Murphy's lean frame as it crosses the street.

"Just a friend," Wren replies tightly.

"Wren," Nate sighs with a shake of his head. "You don't have 'just friends'. What was it you said about them: there was nothing to gain from it?"

"Look," Wren snaps. "You don't get to come in here and begin to tell me about how I operate, all right? As far as I'm concerned, we're related by blood, but you're _not_ my brother. It's been two years, Nate, and I'm finally getting away from all of that bullshit you pulled me into."

"Yeah, you were kicking and screaming the whole time, too," Nate shoots back, heavy on the sarcasm.

"Somebody had to keep an eye on you," Wren replies stiffly.

Nate laughs and leans back on his stool, elbowing Tommy in the process. "She talks like it was a chore or something. Come on, Wren, you loved it – the money, the apartment, the parties…the coke, the alcohol, the meaningless sex…"

"Fuck you, Nate!" Wren hisses, almost climbing over the bar. "Drink your beer and get the fuck out of here."

"Does your 'just friend' know all about your sordid past? Or did you tell him what you tell them all: that you came from a great home life, mom, and dad, and two brothers, and a white picket fence?"

She wills herself not to cry. She's so upset, that's the only thing she can think of doing. She stares into the ice bin instead, and tries not to think of all the ways she can maim her brother with a bottle opener. She doesn't know how he found her, but all she wants to do now is get lost all over again.

* * *

So, should I continue?

_'Ostyn' - Russian slang for 'chill out' or 'calm down'_


	2. Chapter 2

Murphy is waiting for her outside of the bar. When she steps out into the cool air, she inhales, and instead of the whiff of wet streets and cold, she smells cigarettes, and Murphy's shampoo. "You showered," she muses. "How thoughtful."

Murphy shrugs and puts his free arm over Wren's shoulders. "You eaten?"

She shakes her head, and her stomach growls to confirm. "I'm starving," she admits. She was so keyed up from Nate's presence that she didn't even grab something quick on her last break, and opted instead for smoking like a chimney with one of the kitchen guys.

He smiles and steers her up the block. "I want a feckin' cheeseburger."

"Oh god, yes," Wren replies with a frantic nod.

"Lord's name," Murphy mumbles into her hair as he quickly presses a kiss to her head.

He pulls away, and Wren thinks that she didn't mind so much. When his arm slides off of her shoulders, she catches the tips of his fingers with hers and holds them there, not looking at him, not wanting to make it more than it is. But Murphy smiles regardless. After all, it's a start.

They take up a back booth at Hamburger Mary's, and take turns flipping through the tiny table juke box menu as they wait for their orders. They both get cheeseburgers, hers with mushrooms because Murphy hates mushrooms and she likes to gross him out, and they opt for onion rings and cold bottles of Bud.

When she's done eating and waits for her coconut milkshake, she stretches her legs out as far as she can, her feet coming to rest in Murphy's lap. He sucks the last of his beer back and burps, much to Wren's chagrin.

"What were you like in high school?" she asks out of nowhere, and Murphy cocks his head at her curiosity.

"Uh…" he pauses, and gives a small, nervous chuckle.

"Was that the wrong thing to ask?" Wren says with a small smile.

"No," Murphy shakes his head. "No, it's just…I didn't expect you to ask me that." He thinks for a moment and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I was short. We both were, Connor and I. At least, in freshman year. That summer, I grew like a weed. Poor Conn was still barely taller than you and I topped out. I was scrawny, I had a bad hair cut, and," he pauses here and touches the corner of his mouth where there's a mole, "I was a little self conscious of this." He smirks, shrugs those impossibly broad shoulders. "I started playin' baseball in me second year, aye? Started fillin' out, wearin' me hair shorter…an', accordin' ta Conn, girls started noticin' me. Maybe it was because I was a pitcher. Or maybe it was because I was a MacManus. Either way, I was oblivious to it. Conn had enough girls fer the both of us." Murphy smirks fondly and nods in Wren's direction. "What about you?"

Should she tell him really? Or go with the story that she has so carefully constructed, repeated so many times that she almost believes it? "I…got okay grades." That was the truth. "Short, skinny…no tits to speak of…" This is also true, and at the admission, Murphy leers and winks.

"I like yer tits just fine," he points out.

"You should have seen me in grade nine. I was a carpenter's dream: flat as a board, never been nailed."

Murphy barks his laughter and Wren can't help but feel a little warm at the sparkle in his eyes. "Did ya play sports?" he asks.

"Not unless you count cutting class. I didn't like the whole team thing. Was always better on my own, I guess."

Murphy tilts his head, dares to reach across the table and brush his fingers over the back of Wren's hand. "And now?"

She turns her hand over and curls her fingers over his for a moment before pulling back. "I still don't like large groups of people. I like it one on one."

"For someone who likes solitude, ya sure picked a strange profession."

"I also like money," Wren quips. "And it's not like I'm one of them. I'm standing back, watching."

She stops as her milkshake appears in front of her, a tall, frosted glass, the whole concoction topped with whipped cream, toasted coconut, and a cherry on top, and the stainless steel mixer on the side. Murphy has never wanted to be a milkshake so bad in his life, and he watches her devour it. Her lips purse around the straw, her tongue snakes out to lick whipped cream from the long spoon, and she twirls the cherry between her fingers before popping it into her mouth. Ten seconds later, she produces the stem, sitting regally on her tongue, tied into a neat knot.

Murphy swallows thickly and throws down a stack of bills, sure that he's over-tipping, but at that moment, he doesn't care. It's been a long day and he hasn't been with Wren for two or three days now.

* * *

"Jayzus, Mary, n'Joseph," Murphy purrs into Wren's hair as his orgasm winds down. He feels her shake below him, hears the small giggle and he growls, smacking one ass cheek soundly before pulling free of her body. Her giggles stop; she sighs and flops down on her mattress, her face buried in a pillow.

"Does that deserve a 'Lord's name'?" Wren's muffled reply comes.

He collapses on the pillows next to her, staring up at her ceiling and searching blindly for his cigarettes on the side table. "No," he answers shortly before lighting a cigarette. "Only when ya take tha Lord's name in vain," he clarifies.

"So screaming it – or in your case, groaning it – while you're balls deep in a woman you're not married to is okay?"

"I was praisin' em' all, lass." His free hand slides down her shoulder, her spine, and rests on her ass, squeezing fondly. "Did I ever tell ya you have an amazing ass?"

"Hmmm," was Wren's only reply.

Murphy turns onto his stomach and pillows his head in one hand while he smokes with the other. "Ya do," he says gently, his eyes growing soft as his gaze lingers up and down the curve of her spine. "Ya have an amazin' everythin'."

Wren snorts and cracks one eye open, pushing her hair from that eye and regarding Murphy with half a smile. "I'll bet you say that to all the girls," she murmurs.

He smiles, ruffling his hair with his hand. "Only the pretty ones I meet on Christmas Eve," he replies.

His eyes soften more, and whether it is from sleep or something else, something more… _emotional_, Wren doesn't know. She's not sure if she wants to, and so she forces herself from the mattress and grabs Murphy's discarded T shirt, and tugs it over her head. "I'm getting a beer," she says, fluffing her hair out of the collar of the shirt. "You want one?"

Murphy grins, still stretched out on his side, liking the way Wren wears his shirt. "Is the Pope Catholic?" he says cheekily.

Wren smirks. "I'll be back."

* * *

He hears a phone ringing. Beside him, Wren shifts, then groans, and the mattress fipd as she sits up. Seconds later, he hears her sleep-hoarsened voice answer, and he tries to push himself back to sleep. Her weight leaves the bed moments later as she stands, stalking through the bedroom to the bathroom. When she clicks on the light, he senses it behind closed eyelids, and turns away from it and burrows into the pillow with a groan. He drifts, hovering close to sleep when he hears it.

He's not sure at first; he's known the language well for a long time and in his sleepy state, he thinks she's speaking English because his brain is translating it before he can process it.

_"How did you get this number?"_ Her voice is tight, her accent flawless.

_"It's three am. I'm hanging up."_ He smiles at her curtness. There is a lengthy pause and he hears Wren sigh. Then, _"I told you, I'm done with that shit. That's not me anymore."_

He feels a little guilty for eavesdropping, which is strange because he's dreaming. _"No, he doesn't know, and I'd like to keep it that way. Don't call me here again."_ His heart is in his throat now, his stomach in knots. He is unaware he is holding his breath at this point and he hears her voice harden with her next words. _"You're bluffing."_ There's another pause. _"No. I said 'no', Nathaniel."_ She's practically growling now, and she spouts of a string of curses. _"You fucking weasel. I hate you, you know that? If I get out of this alive, I swear, you won't be so lucky."_ He hears her curse once more and then he hears the water running.

Behind his eyelids, the room goes dark again and she slides into bed behind him, curling against his back, tucking her hands under his arm. He hisses when she touches him; her hands are ice cold and he can feel her shaking against him. He licks his lips, trying to find his voice. "You okay?" he tests gently.

"Mmm," Wren murmurs. "Go back to sleep." Minutes later, she's breathing softly, warm air puffing against his bare shoulder.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

* * *

He watches her carefully the next morning as she putters around the kitchen, making breakfast. He knows something is off because Wren doesn't _do_ breakfast – she doesn't cook it, and she certainly doesn't eat it. But she's got coffee going as she pours beaten eggs into the pan and the omelette she produces is quality. She sets it in front of Murphy with a grin and then grabs silverware and a mug.

"Whas this?" he murmurs.

She cocks an eyebrow at him. "Uh, it's an omelette." She stares at him as he stares at his plate and then picks up his fork and cuts a piece, and then pops it into her mouth. Chewing as she smiles, she holds the fork out to him. "It's good," she urges.

Murphy's fingers close around hers and the fork and squeeze, and he looks up at her. Something is off. Her voice spouting heated Russian echoes in his ears and he swallows before letting her hand go and taking the fork from her. "Thanks," he says softly. He hates this – not knowing if it was a dream or not. He hopes it was a dream.

She tilts her head. "Hey, what's up?"

Murphy shrugs and looks back at his plate. Pale yellow eggs on red ceramic. He digs out another bite, but he doesn't eat it. "I…didn't sleep well last night. Bad dream, I guess."

Coffee splashes into the mug in front of him, and he watches as she levels off a spoonful of sugar and dumps it in, followed by a deluge of cream. Just the way he likes it. He doesn't even know how she likes hers and here she is pouring his like she's been doing it for years. "Wanna talk about it?" she murmurs, leaning onto the breakfast bar, stirring his coffee.

He watches her hand move, and the spoon hits the sides of the mug rhythmically. _Clang-clang, clang-clang, clang-cl_…he puts his hand over hers, abruptly cutting the sound off, and he finally looks up at her, staring into those impossibly dark blue eyes.

"Ya spoke Russian," he says slowly, gauging her reaction.

For what it's worth, she doesn't move a muscle, and now he wonders if he really _did_ dream it.

Her eyes study him, wondering if he is still talking about his dream or if he was awake during Nate's call. She licks her lips and pulls her hand out from under his. "In your dream," she says, and he nods. She nods too and fixes him with a curious stare. "How did you know it was Russian?" She's turning the tables and Murphy scrambles for control.

"Hear enough of it around the plant," he explains. "It's Southie," he elaborates. "Ya can't throw a stone without hittin' a Russian."

"Or an Italian," Wren smiles. "Or an Irishman." She pushes off the counter and turns to the stove. "Your eggs are getting cold."

She mixes another batch of eggs and pours them into the pan with a shaking hand. Now they're both wondering and the tension starts to thicken. Murphy digs into his breakfast silently. When Wren is finished her own omelette, she plates it and slides onto the stool next to Murphy.

"D'ya work today?" he asks lightly, reaching for his coffee.

Wren shakes her head, and swallows her mouthful. "I'm meeting a friend," she answers vaguely.

"Ah," Murphy murmurs. "We meetin' later, then? Connor an' Pam want ta have drinks."

"Sure," Wren shrugs. "McGinty's?"

It's Murphy's turn to shrug. "Is there any other place? I mean, besides Grayson's, and I doubt ya want ta go there on yer day off."

She takes a sip of coffee. "You've got that right. Dinner, or…" She finally looks to Murphy who raises an eyebrow.

"Ya tellin' me yer cookin' _twice_ in one day?"

Wren smirks. "Who said I was _cooking_ dinner? Wasn't it you who praised my extensive collection of take out menus?" She smiles as Murphy chuckles. "I'm sure I can find something in a bag or a box that's acceptable."

Murphy sets his mug down, rubbing his palms over his denim clad thighs. Pressing his thumb to his mouth for a second, he raises a dark eyebrow at Wren. "We good?"

Wren nods, turning back to her breakfast. "We're good."


	3. Chapter 3

Wren waved to the bartender for another shot of whiskey, and lit her third cigarette. Nate was late, as usual, and she was stuck waiting for him at _Kitty O'Shea's_, which she guessed had been quite the raucous Irish pub back in the day but had since been overtaken by mass commercialism. It certainly didn't have the warmth (or the stains) that McGinty's did.

"Thought you quit smoking."

She looked up at the voice and saw her brother. She shot him a wan smile, but didn't offer him the seat next to her. He took it anyway, and Wren shifted as Tommy Callahan sank onto the stool on her other side.

"You boys attached at the hip or something?" Wren asked sharply, blowing out a stream of smoke.

"Mr. Monaghan doesn't want our boy Nate takin' off before he's paid his dues."

Wren closed her eyes briefly. "Of course," she breathed. She opened her eyes and glared at her younger brother. "What did you do now?"

He shrugged and flagged down the bartender, ordering a beer. "Nothing more than usual," he grinned.

Wren stabbed her cigarette out in the ashtray. "The usual for you could be anything from bad gambling debt to petty larceny. What did you do this time, rob another liquor store?"

Nate grimaced and ducked his head. "You know, we used to be friends."

"And I used to have a clean record, Nate."

Nate gaped at his sister for a moment. "You blaming me for a rap sheet a mile long?"

"Should I blame someone else? I don't think there was another moron who got himself so deep into trouble that he couldn't get out."

Nate sneered. "Not my fault if you were handy with a lock pick. Or alarm systems. Or guns."

"I hate ta break up the family reunion," Tommy suddenly interjected, "but there _is_ a reason why we're here. Now, as you so astutely pointed out, young Nathaniel is in over his head. He got a little eager during football season and thought it might be wise to bet _against_ the Patriots."

"How much," Wren growled, still glaring at her brother.

"Twenty large."

Her eyes widened and she swung around to stare at Tommy. "Twenty _thousand_ dollars?" she hissed. She looked back to Nate. "What the _fuck_, Nate? You know I don't have that kind of cash!"

He actually looked ashen, and he glanced over Wren's shoulder as Tommy stood up behind her. "Mr. Monaghan has agreed to take payment in other forms." He placed a heavy hand on Wren's shoulder. "It's come to his attention that Nate's sister is wanted in four states in connection to a string of robberies and seven counts of murder."

Wren froze, her throat closing at Tommy's words. "They were all corrupt," she reasoned softly.

"Ya killed em, didn't ya? It's still murder."

She shook his hand from her shoulder and stood then. "They deserved to die," she growled. She reached for her jacket, intent on leaving, but Tommy stopped her with a steely hand on her wrist.

"I'm sure that Boston PD would be very interested in getting their hands on 'Little Bird' Abernathy." He fixed her with a hard, black stare and smiled as he watched her pale. "That's what I thought," he murmured.

She managed to wrench her hand from Tommy's grasp, and she stared at her brother, noticing how he wouldn't meet her gaze. "Ya fuckin' sold me out," she accused hollowly.

"Wren, I'm sorry, but these guys mean business…"

"They always do, Nate," Wren snapped. She looked to Tommy. "I can't get you twenty thousand. At least not right away. I've got about five saved up, if you can just tell Mr. Monaghan…"

"I don't make deals for Mr. Monaghan," Tommy interrupted. "But I know he's eager to meet you. I will arrange a meeting."

"No," Wren shook her head. "No meetings. It's too close. Can you deliver a message?"

Tommy's dark eyes narrowed and leaned down into Wren's face. "Perhaps I wasn't clear. I will arrange a meeting. You would do good to be there. For your sake, and for Nate's."

"Please, Wren," Nate pleaded weakly.

She threw up a hand to cut her brother off. "You've done enough damage." She looked at Tommy closely. "Fine. I'll _meet_ with your Mr. Monaghan. If I don't like what he has to offer, I'll walk."

Tommy grinned and stood straight again. "We'll be in touch." He grabbed Nate by the jacket and hauled him out of the bar.

"Can I get you another?" The bartender cautiously approached, removing Nate's half drunk beer.

Wren cursed, knowing that would be added to her tab. She pulled up on to the stool once more and lit another cigarette. She nodded to the bartender. "Better leave the bottle."

* * *

She gets the call a week later.

She's in her kitchen, elbow-deep in dishwater while Connor dries, and Murphy and Pam are in the living room arguing over what movie they'll watch. Connor is regaling her with stories from Ireland, particularly those about a young Murphy and the girls' varsity field hockey team. Wren laughs loudly as Connor grins, and she feels normal, she feels that this is how things are supposed to go. The phone rings and Connor reaches for it.

"D'ya want me ta answer, lass?"

"It's fine," Wren nods, scrubbing at a plate covered in ginger beef sauce. She hears Connor say 'hello', and then he pauses, and says it again, only this time a little slower, like the person on the other end hasn't responded yet.

_Shit_.

She drops the plate and it slides off the edge of the sink, crashing to the floor. She doesn't bat an eye at it and instead snatches the phone from Connor's hand, leaving a trail of soapy water on his arm. Connor scowls, confused at her reaction to both the broken plate and the call.

"It's Wren," she speaks lowly, taking a step away from the sink.

"Oi!" Connor shouts, pushing her back, her bare feet scant inches from treading on the broken ceramic.

She looks up, startled, and she pales, and then moves the phone from her ear. She ends the call and hands it back to Connor. "Wrong number," she mumbles, turning back to the sink.

_Thursday night. Seven pm. The Black Rose._ The line had then gone dead.

"Everything okay?" Pam calls out as she moves back into the kitchen. "Shit, Conn, did you drop a plate?"

Connor is back at the sink, side by side with Wren, only while she's busy trying to stare a hole in the tile backsplash, his blue gaze is fixed on her. Pam's voice startles him out of his vigil. "Hmm?" He follows her stare and frowns at the floor. "Ah, shite, no, it slipped."

"Broom is in the closet at the front door," Wren drones. She swipes at the hair that has fallen across her forehead and dares to look at Connor. "What?" she mumbles, not liking the weight of his stare. She quickly turns back to the dishes.

Connor says nothing, continues to dry until Murphy appears with the broom. He nudges his brother aside and then Wren, and sweeps up the jagged pieces.

* * *

Nate was waiting for her outside _The Black Rose_. She'd taken a cab and had it drop her off two blocks south, wanting to get a good look at the neighbourhood by walking up. If she had to make a quick exit, she had to know where she might be able to hide. She jay-walked, flipping off the BMW that honked at her, and hopped the curb in time to see Nate approach her.

"Still staking out the neighbourhood, I see," he grinned.

"Well, you're still a dumbass, so I figured: why mess with tradition." She checked her watch. "Let's go." She gestured to the front door.

"Wait." Nate stopped her with a hand gripping her leather jacket.

She looked back to her brother, noting his uneasy expression. "Tell me you didn't set me up."

"I didn't!" Nate protested. "Not…quite," he concluded.

"Is the entire Irish Mob in there waiting to take me down?"

"Define 'entire'," Nate wheedled.

"What are you saying?" Wren growled.

Nate opened his mouth to answer when Tommy appeared in the doorway. "Nice to see you again, Wren. Come inside? We've cleared out the whole bar in honor of your presence." He ticked his head into the pub. "Mr. Monaghan is waiting."

* * *

Tommy's right, the place is deserted; at least, at first glance. The noise near the back says otherwise, and there are two bartenders behind the bar, one filling glasses with beer and the other pouring whiskey like it was water. She strains to hear through the din, hoping to count voices, hoping to hear a woman in the ruckus. If a woman is present, the men will be less likely to be spontaneously violent. The women tend to get sent away before bullets start flying. The women do, save for Wren, because if you've got Little Bird on your side, and she's got a gun, you're golden. That's what they used to say about her.

She takes a deep breath and moves further into the pub, following Tommy closely and feeling Nate at her left side. At least he's learned not to stand on the right – that's her gun side, or was, a long time ago. Before they move from the main area of the pub to the back room where the voices are leaking from, Tommy turns and looks at Wren expectantly.

"Your brother says you've been out of the game for a while, and as a result, you won't be packing. You'll excuse me if I don't trust anything he says?" He gestures to a man who is shorter in stature, but broad just the same. He's built like an ox, his black hair is kept cut short and his eyes are endless and espresso brown. "Ryan, take the lady's coat."

She shrugs out of the worn leather and hands it over to the doorman and stands unmoving as his hands quickly sweep over her frame, checking for weapons. It's nothing new, it's nothing personal, and when his hands linger a little too long on her hips, she clears her throat and cocks an eyebrow at him, daring to say something stupid. To his credit, he doesn't; he simply smirks and steps aside.

"She's fine," Ryan informs Tommy.

Tommy nods and pulls Nate close. "Check him as well. Send him in when you're finished." Tommy leaves Nate and Ryan behind and pushes Wren ahead with a hand at the small of her back.

It takes everything in her not to shrug him off, but she knows these circles and knows that any type of hostile movement will be frowned upon. She lets herself be handled, pushed through a very curious crowd of onlookers until they're standing near a pool table.

"Wait here," Tommy mutters in her ear, and then he's stepping around her and towards a long and lanky man dressed in a designer suit, the jacket shed and the shirtsleeves rolled up. The two talk for a moment and then look to Wren. The lanky man smiles broadly, and hands his cue off to someone else before making his way around the table.

His eyes are hard, green chips of ice and his shock of jet black hair shines in the overhead light. "So you're the little bird everyone has told me about," he greets, looking her up and down. He gives her another smile. "Welcome to the Black Rose, lass. I'm Colm Gareghty."

_"Mickey Monaghan is nothin' in the big picture. He's an underboss. A lackey. Sure, he's higher up on the ladder than most, that's why he's got his own knuckler, Tommy. But the fat cat of the Irish mob is Colm Gareghty. That's a fucker ye don' want ta mess wit'. Tough as nails, killed his own brudder to get the job. He's got blood on his hands, an' black in 'is 'eart."_

Murphy's words from that Tuesday after work echo in her mind as she sizes up the man in front of her. The hand that she shakes is cold, unyeilding, and she has a feeling that the smooth smile on his face is well practiced for moments like this.


	4. Chapter 4

Murphy's somewhat surprised to find Wren on the other side of the door, and not just because it's almost eleven o'clock at night. They didn't do that sort of thing – showing up, unannounced. She looked good – a little flushed, and maybe her eyes were brighter than normal, but she looked better than she had in the past few days. She'd been distracted as of late, on edge, even, ever since that night she spoke Russian. It's a vague recollection now, and Murphy still isn't sure if it had actually happened.

"Hey," he murmurs gently, hanging off the door. "Come on in."

"Sorry about dropping in like this," Wren starts as she steps inside. She's already peeling her jacket off and tossing it onto Murphy's bed.

"S'fine," Murphy shrugs. He holds up a copy of _The Hobbit_. "I was just readin'. Conn's down at the pub wit' Pam."

Wren smirks playfully. "_You_ didn't feel like drinking?"

He smiles shyly and ruffles the hair on the back of his neck. "Eh…s'not the same when yer not around ta take the piss outta Connor, aye?" He watches as her fingers tug the zippers on her boots and she peels the leather back from her legs. She only takes off her boots when she's staying. She only takes them off when she wants to…

"I missed you," she says gently, dropping her boots to the floor. She steps into his space and takes his book, dog-earing the corner of the page he's left off on before tossing it to the couch. She takes his hands and puts them on her hips, drawing them up her torso to cup her breasts through her shirt.

"Really?" Murphy purrs, ducking his head and stealing a quick kiss. "I just saw ya last night."

Wren shrugs. "I've grown attached," she reasons, reaching for the button on his jeans.

Murphy laughs lowly. "Attached to _what_, exactly?"

She gives him a playful smile and sinks to her knees, opening his jeans at the same time. Her eyes drop as her hands slide into the back of his boxers, pulling the fabric down over the curve of his ass and dragging her nails over the backs of his thighs. He hisses and touches her hair, then her jaw, and he tilts her head up so that he can see her face. She licks her lips as she slides one hand around the base of his cock and squeezes sharply before tugging the half-hard flesh to full attention. He's groaning by the time she's got him straining back towards his belly; he's sweating as her warm breath ghosts over his hypersensitive skin. There is no other preamble; she opens her mouth and swallows him, taking him all in with the first dive and Murphy's torso curves forward with the surprise of it. He chokes on a moan and soon both hands come to her face, her hair, holding her to him as she works her mouth over and over him again.

He comes gently in Wren's mouth, his bare toes curling into the concrete floor. He whispers, "Fuck," and moans. He shakes as she continues to suck him, until he's soft and spent and murmuring her name. When she finally pulls away, he staggers, and then stoops to grab her by the arms and lift her to her feet. He can taste himself on her tongue as he kisses her deeply, and for a man with his pants around his ankles, he is surprisingly graceful as he manoeuvres them to his bed. He pulls her down into his arms and turns so he is above her, and all around her.

She sees it in his eyes, just like she's sure he sees it in hers, but they're both too chicken shit to say it first. The feeling is there, though, in their heartbeats, and the gentle glide of fingertips over skin as they undress each other. She kisses the freckles on his shoulders and sucks his earlobe into her mouth because that's what he likes. His beard scrapes her neck and collarbone, and she presses her thighs together at the delightful sensation of it. The moan in his ear makes him grunt and press against her before moving further down.

He worships her breasts, taking one in each hand, easily palming the small, firm globes, and he pulls and pinches her nipples almost too softly. He has her writhing beneath him when his mouth descends on one peak. Over and over he tongues it, lapping at the beautiful strawberry peak. The feel of that perfect bud hardening in his mouth makes him harden in return, and he loves the way her fingers thread through his hair as he moves from one breast to the other. His cock presses into her hip insistently and he pulls back, cupping her face and kissing her sweetly as her thighs part and cradle him.

He swallows his name as it falls from her mouth; he pushes in, sighing at her heat and her wetness; and it is snug and safe. She relaxes under him, having been wound up from her previous meeting. She shakes her head once, ridding herself of the thought. Murphy. Murphy above you. Murphy _inside_ of you, she chants to herself. Her knees are already rising, already hugging his ribs as he sets a slow, deliberate pace. Her hands glide over his shoulders and the sheen of sweat clinging there.

It's not enough, not for him, and not for her, and he hooks an arm under her hips, pulling her up to meet him. She can feel him trying to get deeper and she moves with him, desperately wanting him deeper, too. Their movements are born of frustration, of unspoken words and salted, tangy lust. He pulls and she pushes, and then she finds herself in his lap, his legs stretched out beneath her, knees bent up, while she tries her best to hook her ankles at the small of his back. Her breasts press against his broad, solid chest, heart to heart and belly to belly. Skin to skin and Wren finds that she is at the perfect spot to rest her forehead on his shoulder and just _feel_ as he moves her, and him, to that solid, spiralling end.

He's never felt this before – not with her, or anyone else. There is a burning in his chest, and somewhere in his guts or his belly, things are pinging into place as his mind screams out that this is right, he's complete, he can die a happy man. She feels so small and perfect in his arms and he shudders at the way her breath ghosts over his chest. He likes the feel of her hands clinging to him, of her fingers combing through his hair, sweeping up his neck and down his spine. She is tight, and she is hot, and she is burning him up from the inside out. It's on the tip of his tongue while they are in this face-to-face embrace, and it scares him. He pauses the ebb and flow of his hips and tilts back, pulling her with him to drape across his chest, his palms gliding down her hips and thighs.

She hums, delighted with the new angle, and pretends not to see the gleam in Murphy's eyes. Instead, she closes her own eyes and ducks her head, her mouth seeking out his ears, his jaw, and finally his lips. These she fuses with her own, and she pants into his mouth as her hips take over, a steady canter in his saddle, until she needs more and leans up, and then back, and holds onto his thighs for leverage. Now she can feel him everywhere, and his hands slip over her breasts, stretch to caress her neck, and then her jaw, fingers tangling in her hair and tugging her back down to meet his insistent kiss once more.

"Murph," she mumbles, her hair tumbling over his chest and around his face in a soft, sweet cloud. She hisses, pulling her lips from his, and takes over once more, rocking back and forth until suddenly they are blissfully in synch. Once more, she arches back, and this time Murphy lets her go, his eyes narrowing on the point where they are joined. He watches closely, and every time he disappears inside of her body, it ratchets his arousal up. He slides out, slick and wet, and his hands fumble, grabbing her hips to pull her down once more. But then he lifts her, because, oh, he wants to see it again, see her take him inside, and he arches back, his head pressed into the mattress. He gulps for air.

Her fingers wind with his on her hips, and then she is guiding him between her thighs where she is slippery with want. Her head nods frantically, her lips breathe out a plea, and as she continues to ride him, his fingers slip and slide up and down her clit, rolling it and tugging it until he feels her start to shake. He loves watching her come undone, as she does it so unabashedly. A flush of heat surges through him as he feels her contract, and then flutter, and then contract once more. Her face is determined and she swivels her hips until he's grinding against that spot inside of her that makes her see stars. She pants, tiny gasps turning into choppy moans. She pauses on a downstroke and quakes hard, her fingertips digging into his thigh as she wails and rocks their pelvises together.

He hisses as she sweetly clasps him, and when she slows down, Murphy grins, pushing her hair behind her shoulders. "Turn 'round," he mutters gently, helping her from his lap. Together, they arrange her on all fours and it is times like these he loves the difference in their height. He drapes himself over her back, his shoulders brushing against hers as he braces a hand on the bed next to hers. His other one guides him swiftly into her and they both sigh at the fullness. His breath his hot against her ear and the hand that held her hip is once more searching out between her thighs. "M'not gonna last long," he warns softly, before his teeth close on the juncture of her neck and shoulder. He feels her nod and he leans back up, taking a hold of both hips.

His first thrust is a jolt, making a breathy cry burst from Wren's lungs. It is followed by another, smooth, but no less searching, and then another one comes, and another, and soon he's pounding into her quick and deep. She can almost feel him in her throat, he's so deep now, and her head hangs between her shoulders as she sobs at the miraculous friction Murphy is creating. Her eyes squeeze shut; her fingers claw the sheets. She calls his name and moves to furiously rub at her clit, desperate to come once more before he's done. His hips falter; it won't be too much longer, and he tries to make his thrusts less shallow, and not as quick, but Wren cries out, frustrated, and begs him.

"Don't stop," she groans, shaking her head. Her vision is becoming blurry.

"I can't wait fer ya," he growls, sucking in rapid breaths in an effort to calm himself. It is useless, as he's stated, and soon he's looking down the barrel of a shotgun orgasm. "Ohhh, fuck, Wren, I'm goin' ta come," he moans. "Come with me," he urges. "Come with me, I want ta feel it."

Her breath catches in her throat at his words and then she explodes, and he rockets with her. She's certain their cries can be heard down the hall, but she doesn't really care at this point. Her face is pressed into the mattress, her knees ache and her back is arched in a ridiculous curve. She feels amazing, melting and warm and so light as she comes back down and hears Murphy whimper, feels his hips stutter against her, his hands smoothing up her flanks to her shoulders. He pulls her up so that her back is against him and he slips gracelessly from her body. The wetness that pools between her thighs makes her blush but his hand is cupping her jaw and turning her mouth towards his in a kiss that causes her to become aroused all over again. She tears her lips from his and sucks in a much needed breath, and manages to half turn in his embrace, her hip digging into his lower belly.

"Whoa," she sighs, staring at Murphy as she pants.

He swallows and nods, his blue eyes bright in the dim of the flat. "Aye," he agrees, hoarsely. "I think I'm gonna die now." He gives her a loopy smile and collapses flat onto his back, hooking an arm around her hips and bringing her with him. He hums with pleasure as she lets him curve around her back and wedge a leg between hers. "That was…vigorous," he muses into her damp hair.

She shakes as she laughs. "That's one way of putting it."

There is silence and then the click of a lighter, the dry crackle of tobacco burning. He inhales and exhales and she turns and lays her cheek on his chest.

"That was different," he admits a few moments later. His voice is gentle, a little rough, but that's Murphy.

She knows he's telling the truth. She knows it was different. She tells herself it's because she's armpit deep in shit and it's only getting deeper and she needs something to keep her afloat. But really, it's because she's different now. She's changing, even if she doesn't see it yet. Murphy does, but he doesn't mention it. He sees something in her eyes now, something hollow and cold. It doesn't stay around for long, but it is there in her gaze long enough for him to notice. Her voice is different, too. He hopes that this change isn't because of him. Because of something he's done. Her coming here was such a surprise, such a non-Wren thing to do that he can't help but hope that the change is for good.


	5. Chapter 5

A week later, he ran his own little experiment. She showed up unannounced at his place, obviously nonplussed about it, like it was something that she did – that _they_ did – all the time. The blow job was. The impromptu visit wasn't. Not that he's complaining because, hey, surprise blow job and all that. After leaving work for the evening, he stopped at her building and pressed the button for her buzzer, waiting. She didn't even come on over the intercom, merely buzzed him up. He thought it was a bit strange – it wasn't the best neighbourhood she lived in and he couldn't see her just buzzing up random people. She'd probably seen him from the window or her balcony.

The surprise on her face when she opened the door, however, told him differently. She didn't even say 'hello.' She didn't even _smile_.

"What are you doing here?" she asked lowly, her blue gaze flicking up the hall as she leaned out the door.

Murphy gave her a curious grin. "Hello to you too, girl."

She stood back and gazed up at him. "Do we have plans tonight?" She sounded nervous and she chewed her bottom lip.

"Uh," Murphy half-chuckled. "No. I was on me way home and I thought I'd…stop…by…" he trailed off when he noticed the uncertainty in Wren's expression. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah," Wren suddenly said, as if she just realized he was there. "For a few minutes. I'm on my way out, actually." She stepped aside and ushered him through the door.

"Oh," Murphy breathed. "With who?" He took in her attire – black jeans, black boots, a black t shirt and, clutched in her hands, a black leather jacket. "You goin' on a heist or somethin'?" he joked, nodding at her outfit.

"No." Her tone was borderline defensive. "A friend from work is heading over and then we're going out. He's having relationship issues."

Murphy's eyebrow went up. " '_He_'?"

Wren stood her ground. "Yeah."

"What, he doesn't have guy friends he can go out with?" He grinned half heartedly and lit a cigarette.

"What's with the third degree?" Wren snapped. She shrugged her jacket on.

Murphy blinked silently at her for a moment and then scratched the back of his head before pulling the cigarette from his mouth. "I think I 'ave a right," he grumbled with a shrug.

"Are we back to this again?" Wren shook her head. "It's nothing, Murph."

"Oh, it's nothin', aye? He's 'avin' relationship problems and he's goin' out wit _my_ girl to talk about them? I'll tell you, his relationship is the least of his problems," Murphy hissed.

"I'm not having this conversation with you right now – he's going to be here any minute." She glanced at Murphy and shifted where she stood.

"Are ye tryin' te get rid of me? Don't want me to meet this fella?" He started to raise his voice as Wren moved towards the door, herding him in the same direction in the process.

"Drop it, Murph." Her buzzer sounded at that moment and she hit the intercom button. "Two minutes," she growled to the person waiting below. She looked back to Murphy. "I'll call you later."

He shrugged stubbornly. "M'goin' out."

Rolling her eyes, she sighed. "Fine, then I'll meet you at McGinty's later."

He opened his mouth to protest as she shoved him into the hall and closed the door behind her. "An' what if I'm not goin' te McGinty's?" he sneered.

She merely stared at him as if he'd grown another head.

"Fine," he growled. "M'goin' te McGinty's. I'll see ye there later?"

She nodded. "I forgot my wallet," she explained, turning back to her door. "Later, then." Stepping back into her loft she turned and watched as Murphy stepped onto the elevator and waited until the doors were closed. Once he was out of sight, she breathed a sigh of relief. That was almost _too_ close.

* * *

She waited another five minutes after Murphy left to head downstairs. As she pushed open the main building door, she noticed the town car parked on the opposite side of the street. With blacked out windows and a sleek black paint job, it was hard to tell who was riding in the back seat. The door opened and a man clad head to toe in black stepped out. She guessed it was a body guard. Leaving the door open, he stood to one side and motioned at her and then to the open door. Wren took a deep breath and jogged across the street.

"Mr. Monaghan doesn't like to be kept waiting," the Tommy growled as Wren neared.

She opened her mouth to apologize, but the man at the door shook his head. "Save your words," he barked. "Get in."

She ducked into the car and slid along butterscotch leather seats. The door closed with a muffled thud, dropping the interior into darkness, save for the overhead streetlamp.

"Wren Abernathy," a man's voice drawled. "So nice ta see ya again. Mr Gareghty hasn't stopped singin' yer praises since yer meetin' last week."

Her heart jumped to her throat at the mention of Gareghty's name, but when she didn't say anything, Monaghan began to laugh. "Little bird lost 'er singin' voice, is that it? Tommy, pull 'er tail feathers. See if she'll sing for me."

And just like that, Tommy's hand reached out from across where Wren sat and wrapped itself into her ponytail, yanking hard and giving her a quick shake. She hissed at the sting and automatically grasped the wrist attached to the offending hand. She pulled, scratched at the skin and tried to bend the fingers back, but the more she fought, the hard the grip became.

"Yer more like a cat wit' dem claws. Perhaps we should name ye so," Mr. Monaghan quipped. He nodded to Tommy and the pain in Wren's scalp subsided.

She rubbed at her head, scowling at the man across from her. "Can we get down to business?" Her glare cut to Monaghan.

Monaghan laughed. "Anxious? I promise ya, ye won't be once we get to where we're goin'." He nodded to the man sitting across from them. "Tommy. Tell Patrick to take us to the docks."

* * *

_"Twenty thousand is a lot of money."_

_Wren stood in the back room of The Black Rose, having been given the rare opportunity to speak with Colm Gareghty, head of the Irish contingent in Southie. The first thing she noticed about Gareghty was that he was trying at the Irish brogue too hard. She had to stifle her amusement; she didn't think it prudent to bust out laughing at the fat cat of the Irish mafia. He was playing leprechaun; he was channelling Bono, and she began to wonder just who exactly she was dealing with._

_"No shit," Wren finally answered, shooting Nate a bone-cracking glare._

_Gareghty laughed. "Christ, I'm glad I was blessed wit' brudders," he drawled. "Can't imagine bein' on the receivin' end o'that look."_

_Not changing a thing, she swung her dark blue gaze to Gareghty and sized him up once more. The bastard effected a dramatic shiver and his grin grew wider. "Maybe it's not so bad," he purred._

_"Look," she said, mustering all of the brass she could, "I wouldn't be here if my dipshit of a brother hadn't sold me out. You know who I am. And you probably also know that it took a lot of convincing to get me down here. I'm sure it's no surprise as to why I was so reluctant. I'm done with that life, Mr. Gareghty. I've had my wings clipped, as it were."_

_Gareghty's eyebrows went up at her little speech. He leaned over the pool table he and his thugs stood around and lined up a shot. Aiming, he lifted his gaze from his target and took the shot, the ball sinking perfectly. "Yer sweet, girl." The way he said 'girl' made her think of Murphy and her mouth turned sour. His eyes raked over her frame from top to toe and back up again. "An' yer a tight lil' ting, too. M'sure we can work sometin' out."_

_Wren snorted. "I'm not interested in _that_ line of work, Mr. Gareghty."_

_"Call me Colm," he purred, chalking his cue. "An' if yer not interested in being my hired gun, what exactly can ye offer me b'sides a warm, wet place to stick me cock?"_

_His thugs laughed and Wren bit back every single insult that came to mind. Instead, she took a deep breath. "These other families…the Italians, the Russians…they all have one thing in common with you – they like to drink. You can't throw a stone in Southie without hitting a bar and someone associated with the mob."_

_Gareghty paused from where he leaned over the table and looked up. "I'm listenin'."_

_"These guys…they drink. And they talk. Put a pretty face behind the bar and they won't think twice about talking in front of them – or _to_ them. About anything and everything. You think these guys can make a man sing like a canary?" Wren gestured to Monaghan's thugs and snorted. "Ever seen what good vodka and a round on the house can do?"_

_Gareghty was silent, considering her words. He took another shot, this time missing, and he sneered as he handed the cue off to the short, muscled guy that had checked her at the door. "Snitchin' is a dangerous job, girl." He sauntered to where Wren still hovered near the doorway. "An' I got plenty o'snitches. In fact, I've got the perfect one picked out: your sweet little baby brudder."_

_Wren had to snort at that – Nate was a born snitcher. But she wasn't done trying to make a deal. "I'm not about to be some Mick's fuckhole." She watched anger flicker in Monaghan's irises, saw the tightening of his jaw, and braced herself for a blow that didn't come._

_He laughed. And then his men joined in. "Feck me, girl, ye've got a mouth on ye, don't ya?" He nodded to barmen and waited while whiskey was poured and passed around. Gareghty himself took two glasses, keeping one for himself and handing one to Wren. "Maybe I'll get te see yer other talents some day?" He raised his glass._

_Wren raised hers and together, the lot of them threw whiskey back. She swallowed the burn and stared up into Gareghty's eyes. "Not if you were Saint Patrick himself."_

_He arched his brow and licked his lips. "Nate here assures me that you're the sharpest shooter in the tri-state area. 'Little Bird' Abernathy, am I correct?" He picked up a thick envelope from the bar and waved it at her. "Says here your specialty is long-distance but you handle a handgun very well. It also has all sorts of tidbits of information I'm sure the Boston PD and the Feds would be interested in." _

_"You think you're the first man who's tried to blackmail me back into active status?" She watched Gareghty's fist tighten on the envelope and his eyes turn hard and brutal. The room grew deathly still._

_Gareghty tossed the envelope onto the pool table, scattering the remainders of a game he not longer cared to play. He stalked across the room and when Wren tried to move back, she found that she ran into the solid mass of Tommy Callahan. Callahan's hands wrapped around her arms and held her still as Gareghty closed the distance between them and leaned down into her face._

_"I'm a patient man," he began gruffly. "Ask any of me boyos here. It takes a lot to make me snap. Some of me boyos have been wit' me for more than ten years. Never seen me lose my patience. You've made me reach my breakin' point in less than twenty minutes." His eyes remained on her but his left hand came up swiftly. She barely managed to not flinch. He snapped his fingers and two seconds later, she heard a shriek and a sickening crack. "I've just broken Nate's little finger."_

_She steeled herself and resisted the urge to look at her brother. She might loathe every fibre of her brother's being, but he was still her brother and she had grown up with him. They were still blood. She couldn't take the chance of her emotions getting in the way. "He's got nine more."_

_Gareghty narrowed his eyes and looked closely into Wren's own. "You are one icy bitch, ya know that?" He smirked. "Doyle."_

_Another crack sounded, and Nate's scream came out choked. She heard shuffling, and then whimpering, and still she stared at Gareghty, watching as his jaw ticked. "What's it going to take, Little Bird?"_


	6. Chapter 6

At least Monaghan's brogue was better than Gareghty's. It was actually believable, which made Wren think that Monaghan was closer to his Irish roots than Gareghty. She wondered if that was a source of contention in the ranks. If she was asked, she'd say that Monaghan seemed more like the type to run the show. He didn't look like he was trying to screw you over with every action, he looked like he was trying to screw you, period. He was of average height and build, with a pale complexion to rival Murphy and dark auburn hair. His eyes were impossibly blue. She'd call him attractive, if the situation were different.

"Yer brudder tells me that you weren't always a bartender," Monaghan opened as the car pulled into traffic.

Wren stared out the window, her teeth digging into the side of her tongue. "I was a student," she mumbled. Jesus Christ, was there anyone in Boston that Nate _didn't_ tell about her past?

Monaghan chuckled. "No, _after_ that. Before you were a bartender. Yer brudder also said ye were smart. Too smart, from da sounds of the tings you got inta…"

"I fell in with the wrong crowd," she growled, glancing to Monaghan. "Seems to be my M.O., if you ask me."

He didn't answer her right away but nodded to Tommy who reached into his coat. He pulled out a handgun and handed it to Monaghan. Wren watched the exchange, noting that they both wore gloves. Monaghan inspected the sight of the pistol, turning it so that the black carbon steel caught the light coming in from the tinted windows. "SIG Sauer. Three fifty-seven." He held it, butt end out, towards Wren.

She stared at it, then up at him. "And what's this for?"

Monaghan tilted his head and pursed his lips. "Well, let me tink. Sometin' about a brudder and bad gambling debt and _you_ being an excellent shot. We've got a bit of a problem wit foreign invasion, as it were."

Wren continued to stare hard at him. "What did you have in mind?"

Monaghan nodded. "A Russian," he replied. "An underboss, one of several, I assure you. He goes by the name of Kirill Sokolov."

Wren took the gun from Monaghan's hand and checked the clip and the safety, and then made sure the sight was accurate. "This is a handgun," she pointed out. "I'm much better from far away."

"Mr. Gareghty insists that this one be done up front. It's easy to kill a man you can't look in the eye. Call it insurance. We want to make sure you have the stomach fer this." He glanced up and out the window. "Right here should do it, Tommy."

Tommy reached back and knocked on the window that separated the driver from the rest of the car. They slowed to a stop and Tommy stepped out, shutting the door and leaving Wren in the back seat with Monaghan. Her eyes were fixed on the gun in her lap.

"The longer ye wait, the harder it is." He opened his door and stepped out.

Wren's door opened a second later, and Tommy stood to one side, waiting for her to get out. She watched her feet move, felt the gun sit in the palm of her right hand, the weight of it not quite foreign enough. Monaghan had been right – bartending hadn't been Wren's first calling. But it had been a while since she'd held a gun.

"Let's go," Tommy snapped behind her.

She looked up from the gun into Tommy's pale face, and then shifted her gaze to the warehouse before her. Monaghan was already moving through the door, his driver close behind.

Wren stepped over the threshold and the sky opened up behind her.

* * *

The loud hammering on the loft door caused Connor to choke on cigarette smoke. Murphy had keys – there should be no reason for him to start thumping on the door. He coughed, wheezing as he clambered off the couch and shuffled to the door. The pounding continued.

"Oi! Lay off, m'comin'!" he growled. He scrubbed a hand over his blond hair and glanced down, noticing his lack of shirt and pants. He shrugged. Anyone who came knocking past midnight shouldn't be surprised by someone's state of undress. It was probably Murphy anyway, too drunk to find his keys. With his cigarette clamped between his teeth, Connor growled again as the person slammed their fist into the door. He yanked it open, scowling. "What the feck…"

His curse died on his lips.

It wasn't Murphy on the other side.

"Wren?" Connor was guessing. He was pretty sure the person of small stature standing outside of his door was Murphy's little bird, but he'd never seen her look so…torn apart. She'd been caught in the rain; her normally pin straight hair hung in wavy clumps, clinging to her head and her neck. One knee of her jeans was torn out, a far cry from her immaculate fashion statements. Her face was pale, more so than it usually was, and her blue eyes, while dark, seemed dull. Something wasn't quite right. The sound of her teeth chattering pulled Connor out of his stupor.

"Shit, git yer arse in here, lass! You're soaked!" He frowned at the puddle that had collected around her boots.

She moved stiffly as she stepped over the threshold.

Shutting the door behind them, Connor leaned back against it and watched a tremor run through Wren's body. He moved quickly then, taking her elbow and moving her into the centre of the loft before snatching the blanket from Murphy's bed. He tucked it under one arm and started on the zipper of her jacket, yanking it down before peeling the leather from her arms. He dropped it to the floor and dove for her boots, unlacing them quickly and holding her steady as she stepped out of them as per his orders. With a flourish he unfurled the blanked and draped it over her shoulders, rubbing her arms briskly with his hands.

"What the hell happened, lass?" he murmured as he searched her face. She stared at his shoulder, her lips still tinged blue and quivering. Beneath the blanket, her skin was like ice, and swearing once more, Connor hauled her forward towards the shower. Cranking the taps on, he prayed for hot water. There was a hollow _thunk_ as the pipes warmed and soon steam rose from the shower head. He cranked the second one on as well and turned back to Wren. He didn't know how long the water would last so he took up her hands and pulled her forward, and then under the hot spray with him.

The blast of hot water seemed to snap her out of whatever trance she was in, because she blinked once, and then, again, then focused on him. "Connor?" she murmured weakly.

"Aye," he nodded, flicking his soaking hair from his eyes.

She shivered violently and her teeth clattered together again as she closed her eyes and tipped her face towards the spray.

"Gotta get out of these clothes, lass," he said.

She nodded, fumbling with the button of her jeans, but her fingers were just too numb. Noticing this, Connor made a snap decision and dove in, tearing open the button and zipper of her jeans before tugging them over her cold, damp skin. His fingernails scratched her, but she barely noticed, and merely stepped out of the pile of soaked denim. Connor tossed them aside and pushed her back under the spray, his hands going to her shoulders and rubbing again. He watched her face closely, taking comfort in the fact that her lips soon turned a normal shade of pink. She heaved a wracking sigh and tried to bite back a sob.

"Christ, tell me what happened," he urged desperately.

She opened her mouth, her eyes searching his, and right at that moment, the front door burst open. They both jumped and looked, watching as Murphy sauntered in.

They made an…_interesting_ tableau, both of them stripped to their underwear (save for the black tank top Wren wore), both standing under the spray of water, Connor's hands clutching her shoulders while Wren's fisted at her sides.

"Murph!" Connor called out, reaching for the taps and closing them. "Quit feckin' starin' and grab a towel!"

The darker twin tore his stare from Wren and glanced at his brother. The look of worry on Connor's face was enough to make him jump into action. He found his bathrobe and crossed the loft, shouldering Connor aside and taking over where he had stood in front of Wren. Murphy looked down at his bird as his hands squeezed the excess water from her hair. His eyes never left hers. Neither of them spoke. Connor moved off to give them a sense of privacy.

Murphy frowned at the lack of spark in Wren's eyes and the paleness of her skin. She looked like she had seen a ghost. The skin of her arms and thighs still felt stiff and cold, and he guessed she had been caught in the rain before showing up here. He took a step back and looked her up and down, his gaze caught on the thin stream of blood that trailed down from a cut on her knee.

"What happened?" Murphy asked over his shoulder.

Connor shrugged, lighting two cigarettes and handing on to Murphy. Murphy handed his to Wren who took it with damp fingers and sucked it heavily. "She just showed up here like that – soakin' wet and freezin'. Hasn't said anythin' to me save for me name."

Murphy looked back to the girl in his arms and tied the belt of the housecoat around her. "Wren. Can ye hear me, girl? Are ye hurt?"

She shook her head. "I'm not hurt. It's just a scratch," she summed up, referring to her knee. Her hand shook as she lifted the cigarette to her mouth again.

He smoothed her hair back from her face, picking the damp tendrils from her chest and flicking them behind her shoulders. "Tell me what happened," he urged.

Her teeth came down on her bottom lip and she shook her head firmly, just once, and then threw herself against him, a choked sob leaving her mouth. "Oh God, Murph," she whispered, pressing her face against his chest.

His arms came about her automatically and he tucked her head under her chin before glancing at Connor, who could only watch, worry still etched on his features. Slowly, Murphy moved Wren from the shower to his bedside.

"M'getting' whiskey," Connor announced, pulling on jeans and a sweater. "I'll…leave it in the hall, aye? Head over t'Pam's for the night." He had a feeling that Wren and Murphy needed the time alone.

"Aye," Murphy nodded, his eyes still locked with Wren's. "Thanks, Conn."

The door shut and Murphy's hands went for the knot holding the housecoat closed. He let the terry robe fall to the floor and fisted the damp hem of Wren's tank, pulling it up her torso and tossing it aside. His hands roamed over her skin, hissing at how icy she was to his touch. Spotting his sweater on his bed, he snatched it up and tugged it over Wren's head, helping her with the arms. As he pulled the bottom of it down, he tugged her soaking underwear off, and tucked the end of the sweater below the swell of her ass. He shed his coat and kicked off his boots, and then dragged Wren to the mattress with him.

A double knock on the door told Murphy that Connor was back with the whiskey, and he bolted to the door to retrieve it. "Here," he said, thrusting the bottle to Wren and diving back under the sheets to wrap his arms around her. "Drink that. It will help."

She was already unscrewing the cap as Murphy's arms wrapped around her from behind. Leaning her head back against his shoulder, she tilted the bottle up against her lips and took a long swig. "You know," she gasped after swallowing, "that's just a myth. Alcohol to help with being cold? It actually does the opposite."

"Aye, but it will loosen yer jaw and get yer blood up," Murphy retorted, taking the bottle from her hand and having a healthy slug himself.

They drank in silence for a while, the only sounds the gentle clink of the bottle as it connected with Wren's bracelet, and the _glug_ and _swish_ of the whiskey as it slid up and down the neck of the bottle. When they were through the first third of it, Murphy finally spoke.

"Are ye gonna tell me what happened?"

Wren swallowed a mouthful of whiskey and breathed out. "I…" she shook her head, the words caught in her throat. Squeezing her eyes shut, she could only see the gun in her hand and the look on Kirill's face as she squeezed the trigger. The sound of the thing firing echoed in her ears and she jumped in Murphy's arms. She felt him squeeze her tighter, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder.

"Did he…" Murphy started, before clearing his throat and taking a breath. "That guy, the one from the bar that ye were wit? He didn't try anytin, did he?" Murphy asked tightly.

"No," Wren whispered. "No, nothing like that," Wren reassured. Though, she wished it _had_ been that. Anything but what had actually happened. Her throat tightened, the salt of the bile rising in her throat making her gag. She took another haul off the whiskey bottle. "I…someone died tonight," she blurted out.

"What?" His arms slackened and he shifted behind her until he was up on his knees at her side, staring at her profile. "What the feck are ye talkin' about?"

Her head snapped left, her eyes deadly cold, startling Murphy. "I saw someone get shot tonight. Right in front of me." It wasn't a total lie – really, it had been like watching a movie and she still felt totally removed.

"Christ," Murphy breathed, before crossing himself. "Was it…I mean, did someone get mugged? Or…"

"I think so," Wren said quickly. She looked back to the bottle in her hands.

_"These ones are the worst," Mickey Monaghan said beside her. "They look at ye and try te talk ye out of it. Ye gotta be hard. Ye gotta be stone."_

"I…ran," she said, gesturing to her banged-up knee. And she had run, full tilt, the gun in her hand, through the soaking streets of Southie until she'd fallen and cut her knee open.

_"But if ye hold yer gun like so," and he raised her arm from where he had moved behind her, and the gun blocked out the face of the Russian underboss tied to the chair, "then they can't look ye in the eye. Cheer up, lass. Could be you sittin' in his place."_

Her stomach clenched as Monaghan's words came back to her. She leaned forward and fumbled for Murphy's cigarettes, pulling one out and lighting it.

"Did ye tell the cops?"

Wren shook her head. "No. I came straight here."

Murphy was talking again. "Were there any witnesses? Other than you? Christ, Wren, were ye followed?"

_"Make it quick. When yer done, make yerself disappear, and do so quickly. The noise will bring witnesses an' if yer fingered, nuttin' in the world can save ye."_

She wasn't an amateur, but she didn't bother arguing with Monaghan. She'd wiped her prints from the gun and ditched it halfway to the loft, a good ten blocks from where it had happened. She couldn't get rid of it fast enough, but her fingers curled like she still held its lead weight, her arm still tingled from the kickback of it going off.

She'd understood every word Kirill had muttered. First he'd tried to bargain with her. Then he'd turned to threats. When it was clear that she wasn't interested in what he said, he told her about his family, about his wife and three children and the shitty apartment they called home. She wasn't sure what disturbed her more: his story, or the fact that it hadn't moved her in the least. A switch at been thrown when she had stepped into that warehouse, and even though killing up close was difficult, it was still a kill and she'd put bullets in hearts before.

Again, she shook her head, answering Murphy's question. "I took a roundabout way. Besides, it's dark. Raining. I doubt anyone saw me dressed the way I was."

Murphy nodded and pulled his fingers through his hair. Then he straightened and turned to her. "I thought ye were comin' to McGinty's tonight? I mean, after ye finished wit' yer friend."

"Lost track of time," she said, pulling herself to stand. She paced in front of Murphy's mattress for a spell, smoke curling around her as she moved.

Murphy stood and planted himself in Wren's path, catching her elbows as she spun to walk the length of his mattress again. "Ye need te sit down, girl. Yer still shakin', an' not from the cold."

She focused on the feel of Murphy's hands on her, and the warmth that seemed to seep out of his fingertips. Drawn to it, she leaned against him again, looking up into his eyes and cupping his face in her hands. "Take me to bed, Murph," she murmured as her gaze fell to his lips. "Make me yours."

"Aye, girl," he answered softly.


	7. Chapter 7

_"Relax. It gets easier. By the fourth or fifth, you barely even blink."_

Wren bolted upright with a gasp, her hands clutching the sheet that was wrapped around her. Gray morning light filtered in through the window behind her and she scanned her surroundings, sure that she was somehow back in that warehouse near the docks, sure that she'd see Russian –

_"Kirill Sokolov."_

…sure that she'd see the Russian slumped forward in the chair he'd been tied to, his blond hair soaked through with blood from the gaping hole in the back of his skull.

She bolted from Murphy's bed and rounded the wall, crashing to her knees in front of the toilet. She knelt there, heaving for what seemed like an eternity, and sobbed when she felt the broad warmth of Murphy's hand on her back, rubbing circles, and then holding her hair away from her face.

"S'all right, girl," he murmured.

The click of the Zippo was sharp, and the smell of acrid smoke followed. Her stomach lurched again. She was certain that she didn't have anything left. Bright yellow bile stared up at her from the toilet bowl and with her last bit of energy she grunted and managed to pull the handle down, flushing everything away.

* * *

_She is divided now, twisted around two existences that refuse to coincide, and she is a shadow of both women she claims to be. The thought of killing made Wren sick, but Little Bird hasn't tasted blood for longs seasons, and her finger curls around the trigger like a wayward lover migrated back home. The mechanical click and the hollow bang - and it is a bang, smooth and dead - makes frost cut through her bones, but her blood is hot to thaw her. It is a heady rush, a mix of desire and fear, of hatred and elation, of half-truths and consequence. Wren fights, Little Bird flapping wings madly, crowing at her, you **are** this, you have **always** been this, and you will **die** as this. _

* * *

"…pretty shaken by it. No, I don't think so. She's been sleepin' all mornin'. I don't want te leave her, Conn, but she needs clean clothes and somethin' te eat. Right. See ye then."

Murphy hung up the phone and looked back to where Wren was laying on his bed. She wasn't sleeping now, merely laying there, staring at the ceiling, an ashtray balanced on her stomach, a lit cigarette dangling from her fingers.

"Conn's on his way back wit' Pam. They can stay wit' ye while I go te yer place an' check tings out. Get ye sumtin' te wear."

His answer was a plume of smoke rising from the bed.

"They're bringin' lunch," he added, more to cut the silence in the loft than anything else. She hadn't said much in the last twelve hours, not since she requested he take her to bed. He moved to stand over her, leaning over the bed so that his face was in her line of sight. "Wouldya say something? Please? Even an 'okay', or 'fine, Murph' would do."

Her mouth sort of curled up in something that he supposed was a smile. "Okay. Fine, Murph." She put the cigarette to her mouth once more.

"I'm tryin' ta help ye, girl," he sighed, trying to keep his temper at bay.

She moved the ashtray and sat up before moving to her feet. "I don't need your help with this."

He snorted and watched as she pulled off his sweater and found her discarded tank top, still damp from the night before. "Bullshit – what are ye doin?" He watched her pull her damp clothes on and collect her boots from the floor.

"Thank Conn for lunch," she said lightly. "But I have to go. I'm working tonight."

Murphy caught her wrist as she waltzed past him. "The hell you are," he growled. "I'm not lettin' ye out of m'sight, girl."

Wren's face closed up and she shook free from Murphy's grasp. "I don't need a babysitter, Murphy. I need to go to work and forget about this."

He let her go, chewing his thumbnail as she laced her boots. "You won't ferget," he muttered as she shrugged her jacket on.

She whirled to face him, her eyes ice cold.

Stalking across the floor, Murphy came to stand before her. "Ye'll never ferget. Watchin' someone die? You can't ferget that sort of shite."

Shit, didn't she know it? "Then I need a distraction," she said softly.

He plastered a nefarious grin on his face. "I've plenty o'ways te distract ya."

This finally roused a real smile, and he saw something of the girl that had approached him at the coffee shop at Christmas. "I'm sure you do," she purred. "But I can't miss work. It's too late for me to call in." She checked the clock on the wall. "My shift starts in an hour and I can't go in looking like this, so I'll be late to begin with."

Murphy wasn't going to take 'no' (or any form of it) for an answer. "When are ya finished?"

"Nine." She pulled the zipper of her jacket up and went to open the door, glancing back at Murphy, who was busy slipping on his jacket. "What are you doing?"

"Goin' wit ye. At least, to walk wit ye." He pocketed his keys and shooed her out the door. "And I'm pickin' ye up, too, an' walkin' ye home."

"Fine," Wren sighed, defeated once more by Murphy's stubborn nature. "But can we go now?"

Murphy nodded. "Right behind ye, girl."

* * *

Wren had almost forgotten the night before. Murphy had the uncanny ability of making her mood shift for the better every time she was in his company for more than five minutes. By the time they'd reached her block, they were taking their time, their fingers loosely linked as they talked about stupid things like the weather. Hand-holding, especially in public, had been a big step as of late. Wren still didn't want to label what they had and Murphy hadn't pushed. He seemed just as hesitant to take things any more serious than they already were.

She kissed him breathless in the elevator, and when they crawled to a stop at her floor she was seriously considering calling in sick. Murphy's lips crowded hers as he pushed her against the wall next to her door, his breath warm against her face.

"Got a secret admirer, girl?" he murmured.

"Hmm?" Wren cocked an eyebrow and then followed Murphy's gaze to the floor in front of her front door.

A package sat there, wrapped in non-descript brown paper, with her name and address scrawled in one corner. It was the size of a large book, and she watched as Murphy leaned down and around her feet, and picked it up. "Jesus Christ, did ye order bricks or sometin?" he chuckled, hefting the weight of it.

"Lord's name," Wren murmured, taking the package from Murphy. He was right, it _was_ rather heavy, and the solid surface beneath the paper didn't feel like any hardcover book she'd ever encountered. She fished her keys out of her jacket pocket, the fingers of her other hand running along the edges of the package. There were two little bumps on the back and an edge that ran all the way around. It felt like a hinged box.

_It felt like a gun case_.

Her mouth went dry and the hand holding the keys began to shake so badly that she dropped the lot of them. They rattled to the floor and Murphy swooped and snatched them, and fitted the right key into the lock. "Y'alright?" he drawled smoothly.

"Yeah," Wren breathed with a tight smile. "Still kinda shaken up. Here," she said, taking the keys from him. She motioned for him to step inside and she followed. Tossing her keys on the counter, she tucked the package under her arm. "I'm gonna shower. Make yourself at home, okay?"

"Sure you don't want me to wash your back?" Murphy purred as he stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

She shrugged him off. "Murph," she sighed. "I have to go to work." She toed her boots off.

He let her go, and pouted. "Doesn't mean ye can't go in wit' a smile on yer face."

Wren heard the petulance in his voice and threw a look at him over her shoulder. "Don't be such a suck," she laughed. "I'm done early tonight, right? You can make me smile all you want then." She managed to wiggle out of her jacket without putting the package down, and then started on the stairs. "Can you fix me a drink?"

Murphy grinned. "Aye." He moved to the bar. "Anything in particular?"

"Whatever you're having," she called back absently, already near the top of the stairs.

* * *

She felt like she stood there for hours eyeing the paper-wrapped package in the middle of her bed. It wasn't until she heard Murphy climbing the stairs that she shook herself into action and tossed her jacket over the box. She tore his sweater off and pushed her jeans down her hips and greeted Murphy wearing nothing but her panties.

He grinned and held out a glass with two fingers of whiskey. She took it and downed it, and Murphy stared, his eyes wandering over her breasts and thighs. When she felt his eyes on her she put a finger up in warning.

"No," she said, pointing at him like one might a misbehaving dog. "Don't even think about it."

He lifted on broad shoulder effortlessly. "Can't help it, girl," he purred, taking a swallow of whiskey. "I think about it all the time."

"Well…just…stop it," she said hurriedly as he took a step forward. She moved back a step and bumped into her dresser.

"Not likely to happen," he answered, his voice low and rough. He cocked his head, as if devising a plan. He nodded his chin at her. "Take yer panties off."

Her skin flushed; she felt the prickling heat rise from her thighs to her scalp. He was looking at her like she was his last meal and she swallowed thickly. "I don't have time," she reasoned, lamely.

"Yer wastin' more time fightin' me than it's gonna take te fuck ya," he growled. "Take. Yer. Panties. _Off_." He was practically growling. He advanced another step and watched her chest rise and fall with every frantic breath. When her thumbs hooked into the sides of her underwear, he smiled softly and nodded, encouraging her. "Good girl."

She let the cotton fall to her ankles and with a shuddering breath she leaned back against the dresser, bracing herself with her hands. Her eyes were glued to Murphy, who finished his drink with another gulp and then pulled open his belt and jeans. She followed his hands, her eyes dark and bright as the dark hair that trailed down his belly came into view. Unconsciously, she licked her lips, and let Murphy pick up one of her hands and place the palm on his abs.

He watched her like a hawk, her eyes still on his until he brought her hand up to touch him. Then, her head tilted down and she watched as he pushed her hand down and into the front of his boxers. His fingers guided hers, and he curled their fists around his hardening length, and tugged roughly. Baring his teeth, he grunted, and sucked in another breath as he felt Wren's own breath huff against his chest. A whisper of a moan floated up from her lips and his cock ached and grew harder as her other hand came off the dresser and pushed his jeans and boxers down off the slight curve of his ass.

She squeezed him, his cock and the curve where his butt cheek met his thigh, and licked her lips as he helped her create a quick, ragged rhythm. He was oak-hard in no time, velour skin hot and pulsing under her fingers. His hips bucked toward her, his head falling back and his eyes closing at the sensations she was creating. She doubled her efforts and her reward was Murphy's long and low groan that made her burn between her thighs.

He looked down at her once more, her lips parted as she panted in time with their combined stroke, and his free hand came up and clutched the hair at the base of her skull. He gave it a quick, sharp yank and brought her eyes up to his. "Are ye wet, girl?" he asked hotly.

Her breath caught in her throat; when she didn't answer quickly enough, Murphy tightened the hand in her hair. "Answer me, Wren," he whispered, clutching her fingers over his cock and stroking harder.

This time, her head lolled back and she writhed with the way he spoke to her. Murphy could be cute, or sweet, funny, or solemn, intensely silent and observant or loud and boisterous, but _this_ side of Murphy, the demanding side, the controlling side, was something she rarely saw, and it fired her engine. Pressing her thighs together, she _knew_ she was wet; she had been as soon as he crowded her against the dresser. She nodded, her bottom lip snagged between her teeth.

He hummed when she nodded, and his eyes grew more dark and dazed with lust. "Do ya want my cock in ya?" When she nodded this time, he shook his head. "Can't hear yer head nod, girl. Tell me."

"Want your cock," she whispered, broken, hot, and through with teasing. Christ, he hadn't even kissed her or laid a hand on her save for her hair and her hands, and she was burning up from the inside out. She gulped in another breath and tried pushing her voice again. "I want it. Want it in me." Her eyes squeezed shut as the sting in her scalp sharpened. "Fuck. Goddammit, Murphy," she whimpered. "Put your cock in me and fuck me."

He stilled their hands on his cock and squeezed down near the base, his eyes nearly crossing. Holding his breath, he forced himself to relax, the cadence of her voice was making it hard to concentrate and he pushed the orgasm that threatened back down until it was a gentle simmer between his hips. Lifting her easily, he plunked her down on the dresser behind her and pulled her until her ass hung over the end. With his hands caught behind her knees, he plunged the first three inches of his length into her and held it there while his thumb lazily swiped at her clit.

"I'll fuck ya," he nodded. His hips wound up and he pulled out agonizingly slow, all the while drawing drowsy spirals all over her clit. "I'll fuck ya slow," he decided. "An' hard." His free hand clutched her thigh and his fingers dug into her skin as he pulled her hips up to meet his.

He sawed in and out of her, leaving her raw and on edge. Every pass of his thumb over her clit made her shake around him, and she clenched at the few inches of his length that he teased her with. Shallow strokes, hard and slow, made the arousal that simmered in her veins begin to boil and her hips bounced, trying to get more of him. With every bounce, he shifted back, smirking at her frustration and making her cry out and curse him.

In the middle of one particularly colourful tirade, Murphy snagged both of her knees again and drove fully inside, turning a chorus of 'muther fucking teasing bastard' into a keening wail. Wren snapped, her back arching as Murphy furiously strummed her clit. "Oh, yes," he moaned thickly. He pulled back, shallow and slow once more, and Wren heaved an aggravated groan.

"Whas tha matter, girl?" Murphy teased with a smirk.

She growled and bared her teeth.

"Tell me what ye want," he breathed.

"I want to come," she snapped.

"Ya want me ta make ya come?"

She nodded, wincing as his cock inched further inside.

"Ya want ta come on me cock? Make it all nice n' wet wit dat hot lil' cunt o'yers?" His thumb ground into her clit and flicked it. His eyes blazed with excited lust as he searched her face.

"Shit, Murph!" she hissed through clenched teeth. Her head thrashed against the wall behind her.

He leaned over her, sinking his cock just an inch further. His lips hovered right next to her ear and his next words rolled off of his tongue like the waterfall head of a Guinness: "So come, Wren. Feckin' gush. Come, _now_," he growled, his mouth hovering over hers so closely she could feel the vibrations of the words. His lips fused with hers, his hips plunged again, and he rubbed the very tip of her clit with his thumb.

She thought she heard herself scream. The taste of Murphy's mouth was so sweet. She crashed headfirst into a swelling finish, bursting, clenching and clutching at Murphy so hard that he was forced from her quaking pussy, a rush of sweetness soaking his thighs. Determined, he pushed back inside, making her hiccup and thrash again as he chased his own blinding finish.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Quick shout out to Valerie E Mackin, Leyshla Gislel, Melissa, DeDe324, SaraLostInes, and all those who have stopped by. You guys rock, thanks for reading. I'm not a review troller, I don't write for the reviews, but it makes the process that much sweeter! Glad I've intrigued you so far. A lot of you have asked 'what's in the box'...don't worry, we're getting there...we're also going to intersect with the film first. I think we'll make a stop off in angsty town, have some more lies and some more guns, and definitely some interesting revelations. Ooh, and more sex. Can't forget about that._

_Special thanks to pitbullsrok who helped with a little writer's bump (not a fully developed block) and sent me some links to great tunes to go along with this fic._

* * *

She was really late showing up for work. Dumping Murphy off at the bar, she excused herself and made a beeline for her manager's office. "Get him a beer," she instructed Bryant. "Put it on my tab."

Murphy snickered, watching her go. He thanked Bryant when a pint of Guinness appeared, and he took a healthy sip. He did feel _moderately_ bad about Wren being late for work, but it was worth it. With a self satisfied smirk, he tucked into his pint and lit a cigarette.

"You gotta light?"

Murphy glanced to the left at the young man a few stools over. There was something vaguely familiar about him. Murphy nodded and stood, walking his Zippo down the bar.

"Thanks," the young man said. He lit his cigarette and then continued. "I'm new to the city and I was wondering…what's a good bar to go to?"

Murphy gave him a curious gaze. "Not exactly sittin' in a tea room, are we mate?"

The guy laughed and ran a hand through his pale blond hair. "Yeah, but it's hard to pick up chicks with your big sister tending bar."

Murphy blinked. "Excuse me?"

The guy shook his head and pointed in the direction that Wren had headed in. "The little blonde you came in with? That's my sister, Wren. I'm Nate Abernathy." He stuck out his hand towards Murphy.

Murphy stared, his mouth slack. "Really," he finally said, albeit a little flatly.

Nate chuckled and shrugged, his hand still extended.

Murphy noticed the last two fingers were bandaged, and so he didn't shake it too hard. "What happened t'yer fingers?"

Nate glanced down and grinned. "Sibling spat. You have a sister?"

"A brother. A twin brother, actually," Murphy said. Then he realized that he hadn't introduced himself. "M'sorry, I'm Murphy. I uh…um…yer sister an' I…"

"I get it," Nate laughed. "A brother, eh? The twins Mac…something…you're Irish, I presume."

Murphy grinned. "What gave it away?" he asked in a breezy brogue. "MacManus," he added.

"MacManus," Nate echoed. "Nice to meet you. Wren didn't mention you."

"Aye, well," Murphy gestured towards Nate, "she didn't mention you either, mate."

"She wouldn't," Nate sighed. "I'm kinda the black sheep of the family. Well, the _other_ black sheep." He didn't elaborate any further, and sat back down with his pint. "You wanna sit down, maybe join me? From what I understand, she's three hours late, so she might be back there for a bit."

"Uh, sure," Murphy nodded. He moved down to grab his beer and then hopped on a stool next to Nate.

"I've got money riding on this game," Nate informed Murphy as he pointed at the hockey game on the screen.

"I hope ya didn't bet on the Leafs," Murphy noted.

Nate blew out a stream of smoke. "Nobody bets on the Leafs. I'll be five large richer in about seven minutes."

"Score's only 1-nuthin'," Murphy pointed out. "Could be a late showing."

Nate waved his hand dismissively. "Never happen," he replied. "And it's the Panthers, man. They're from Florida. They shouldn't even know _how_ to play hockey; they don't have a winter."

"I'll drink ta that," Murphy said, raising his glass.

"You guys will drink to anything," Nate replied.

Murphy stared at him for a moment and then burst out laughing. "You and yer sister share the same sense of humor," he pointed out.

They watched the game together in companionable silence, which was soon broken as the Panthers started to score. "Shit," Nate muttered, clearly agitated. He shifted on his stool and drained his beer, setting the empty aside.

"Startin' ta feel light in the pockets?" Murphy teased.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Wren chanted as she suddenly slid behind the bar and next to Bryant. "I…had some issues…" she trailed off as her eyes widened on the unlikely pair sitting at the bar, staring up at the big screens.

"Nate," she bit out, glancing at Murphy. He was watching her steadily.

"Hey, Wren, nice of you to show up for work." His tone was on edge and he shot a sidelong glance at Murphy. "Met your friend while I was waiting." He leaned over the bar and spoke his next words lowly. "You were supposed to be here three hours ago. I'm supposed to check in on ya. Make sure you're still in one piece."

"Can we talk about this later_?_" she hissed back. She felt Murphy's gaze but refused to look at him.

"No, we can't. I'm fucking late as it is_._"

Wren scowled. "I'm fine. There were no issues. Can you leave now?"

Nate smiled tightly and nodded. His attention was captured by the screen overhead once more and he glanced up, noting the final score with a nauseous look.

"How much?" Wren muttered.

"Five," Nate snapped.

"Great. Add it to my tab. Will you go now?"

Nate stood and yanked his jacket on. "It was nice meeting you, Murphy. Maybe we can talk again sometime."

"Aye," Murphy replied, non-committal. He was too busy staring at Wren. When Nate left, and Wren finally looked at him, Murphy stabbed out his cigarette and looked right in her eyes. "So your brother is in town."

"Yeah," Wren sighed.

"Isn't that a good thing?"

Wren half sighed, and half chuckled. "If it was Chris that showed up, then yes, it would be a good thing. But instead it was Nate." She shook her head and looked away from his piercing stare. "We've never really gotten along," she said tightly. That was the understatement of the year, but she didn't feel like delving into details.

"So…this upsets ya," Murphy summed up. He rubbed the scruff on his chin for a moment. "Hey, ya know, siblings fight. Connor and I…"

"Connor and you are _nothing_ like Nate and me. Believe me," Wren cut in. "Trouble follows him, Murph, and I'm always there to clean up after him." She pressed her fingertips to her eyes and shook her head again. She'd already said enough. "Look," she breathed. "He's here, there's nothing I can do about it. It stresses me out." She opened her eyes. "I'm sorry if I've been acting weird lately."

"I can tell him ta feck off if ya like," Murphy shrugged. He was only half joking.

Wren snorted. "What I wouldn't give…no," she finally answered. "It's best if you steer clear of him . You might find out something about me that you don't like."

Murphy smiled broadly at that. "Doubt it," he replied.

Bryant wandered over at that moment and interjected. "Ah, I hate to break up your little love fest down here, but I'm done in an hour and I need to go over a few things with you, Wren"

Murphy nodded and finished his beer. "Aye, take 'er. She's a pain in me arse," he joked with a smile. "But send her my way when she's done, aye?"

"You got it, Murph."

"There's a good lad."

"Might be late, though – what did Gary say when you showed your face in his office?"

Wren snorted and rolled her eyes. "He was too busy dealing with the crisis of the day – Marlene broke up with him. _Again_. I don't think he even knows what day it is." She looked back to Murphy. "I'm done at nine."

"I'll be at Doc's," he replied. He suddenly reached across the bar and caught Wren's shirt, hauling her up to her toes. Craning his neck, he managed to push a kiss onto her lips. It lasted a mere second, but it left a goofy smile on her face. "Later," he smirked, and then sauntered out of the bar.

"Ass!" Wren called back.

"You love it," Bryant muttered as he watched Wren watching Murphy leave.

A smile bloomed on her face. "Fuck you, Bryant," she said sweetly, still watching Murphy's retreat.

Bryant's laughter rang through the bar. "You're in denial," he sang.

Wren looked back down at the beer she was filling. "Don't I know it," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

* * *

"Wren!"

She walked through the door at Doc's and was greeted with a cheerful shout of her name. Connor clambered towards her from his spot at the bar, a beer in each hand and a cigarette between his lips. His smile was a mile wide and when he reached Wren, he threw an arm over her shoulders, dangling a beer in her face.

"S'about time ya got here! Murph is a shitty third wheel!" He laughed, albeit a tad slurred, and nodded to the booth where Murphy was sprawled knocking back whiskey and singing along with the Pogues, who were currently blasting from the sound system. Connor's girlfriend, Pam, was looking on, rather amused, and throwing coasters at him.

Wren took the beer Connor offered and drank half before she'd even passed the bar. She paused and ordered two shots of whiskey from Doc and then tailed after Connor. She slid in next to Murphy and set one of the whiskey shots in front of him.

"Yay!" Murphy sang. "Me dreams have come true! Tha whiskey fairy _does_ exist!"

Connor howled with laughter and Murphy shot him a dark look, which only served to make Connor laugh harder.

Wren snorted into her glass and rolled her eyes. "I forgot how immature you are when you're drunk."

"Mmm," Murphy growled, sitting up and grabbing his whiskey. He threw it back and then, before Wren could protest, he grabbed her whiskey and drank that one, too.

"Murph!' Wren cried out.

"Still tink 'e's older, lass?" Connor snickered.

Wren's eyebrow went up. "According to your mother, yes. Yes I do," she answered with a straight face.

Connor's smile melted and it was Pam's turn to giggle. She elbowed him. "Move. It seems you forgot to get me a beer when you were up there."

Connor narrowed his eyes playfully at Wren and stood. "Wren took yer beer," he announced. "Right out o'me hand. Doc barely had time to finish pourin' it."

"I'm sure," Pam nodded. "Do you want anything?" she asked, turning to Wren.

"Whiskey," Wren and Murphy answered at the same time. Murphy giggled.

"You've had enough," Wren sighed, patting Murphy's jean-clad thigh.

"Haven't," Murphy insisted, shaking his head. "But move, aye? Got to take a piss."

Wren stood and let Murphy out. It was just her and Connor in the booth now, and Connor was staring at her with a curious gaze.

"What," Wren asked, shifting under his scrutiny.

Connor tapped the ash from his cigarette and pointed it at Wren. "Murph says yer brudder is in town."

Wren sipped her beer and stole a cigarette from the pack Murphy had left in his coat. "Well, Murph is right." She leaned across the table to the Zippo that Connor held out for her.

"He says you two don't get along," Connor continued.

Wren sat back and the Zippo clicked shut. "Did he also say that I don't like talking about it?"

Connor nodded. "Come on, he can't be that bad. Yer siblings. Thas a special bond," he declared.

"Well, someone forgot to tell him that. Or he has a warped definition of the term 'special'." Wren shrugged. "We used to be close."

"So what happened?" Connor prodded.

"He turned into an asshole."

The lighter MacManus brother made a dismissive sound. "Can't be that easy."

"Can't it?" Wren shook her head and took a drag from the cigarette before blowing out a few smoke rings. "I can't be certain of when it happened. One day we were inseparable. The next day, he was gone. And he only came back when he needed something."

"And he needs something now, then?"

Wren looked closely at Connor. "Yeah, he needs his ass kicked, among other things."

"I could probably handle that," Connor offered.

Wren had to laugh. "Christ, where were you and Murphy five years ago?"

"Lord's name," Connor reprimanded. He opened his mouth to ask her about five years ago, but Pam had returned and shoved him into the booth so she could sit down.

The brunette set whiskey in front of Wren and herself and as Wren reached for the glass, a hand bearing the word _Aequitas_ snaked along the table, ready to snatch it. "No!" Wren snapped, slamming her hand down onto Murphy's and throwing the whiskey down her throat in two seconds.

"Damn," Murphy groused playfully. He collapsed into the booth, his head on Wren's shoulder. He blinked at Pam and Connor. "What are we talkin' about?"

"Nothing," Wren said.

"Wren's brudder," Connor replied at the same time, grinning at Wren.

Wren shot Connor a look that dared him to continue. Thankfully, Connor's girlfriend was obviously well-versed in the meanings behind female body language. She carefully steered the conversation from what she suspected was a sensitive subject. "Did you really see someone get shot last night?"

Wren blinked and leaned back into the booth, finding Murphy's arm ready to catch her. "Yeah," she nodded, sobering from the acidic back and forth between her and Connor.

"Oh my god, are you okay?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Not sure about the guy that got shot," she stated rather glibly.

Pam stared curiously and shot a questioning look to Connor. After all, Connor had shown up at her place after midnight last night, stating that Wren had witnessed a shooting and seemed fairly shaken up about it. Now, Wren was sitting in a bar, sucking back whiskey like it was going out of production, and cracking jokes.

Wren was speaking again, having drained her beer. "I mean, he was probably some asshole working for one of the mob families."

"I'll drink ta that," Murphy grinned, upending his own glass and finishing his Guinness.

"Aye," Connor nodded, doing the same.

"Yeah, but what if he wasn't?" Pam protested, glaring at Connor. "You don't know that," she elaborated. She looked to Wren. "He could have been married, with kids and a job."

"A job with the Russian mafia," Wren muttered. She stood from the booth, grabbing the empty glasses. "Who wants another?"

The MacManus brothers nodded, but Pam could only stare, half heartbroken at the attitude Wren was displaying, and Connor and Murphy were supporting. Wren didn't wait for an answer and instead wandered up to the bar with Murphy following close behind.

"Okay, what the fuck?" Pam breathed once she and Connor were alone.

"What d'ya mean, 'what the fuck'?"

Pam waved her hand in the general direction that Wren had gone. "You said she was pretty busted up about it."

Connor snorted and shrugged. "Well, I guess she's gotten over it."

"And what was that about? Do you actually agree with people getting killed because of petty crimes?"

"Who said anytin' about 'petty'?" He lit a cigarette and drew his fingers through the ring of moisture his last beer glass had left behind. "Look, Pam, it happened in Southie. It probably is just as Wren said: some Mafioso, or lackey, finally getting his dues. I mean, Wren's not even sure what she saw, all she knows is someone was shot."

Pam sighed and leaned back in the booth. "It's still a human life, Conn," she insisted.

Connor blew out a stream of smoke, aware of the tension forming between him and Pam. "Okay," he nodded. "I get that. You're right, it could have been a nice family man walking home to his eight kids and his wife after haulin' ass all day at a dead end job, just tryin' ta make ends meet. Maybe humour is Wren's way of dealin' wit' it." He slid his fingers between Pam's and brought them to his lips, brushing her knuckles against his mouth.

Pam shifted and pulled her hand from Connor's. "I'm going to the washroom," she announced as she stood. She flashed Connor half a smile and disappeared into the crowd.

Connor groaned with frustration and focused his attention across the bar, where his brother and Wren were crowded together, heads tipped towards one another.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: It's the weekend, and what better way to start your weekend than with Murph-smut. Smurphy? That sounds weird. Anyway, for those of you that want to know 'what's in the box?'...here you go. Happy weekend!_

* * *

"How many is tha'?" Murphy shouted over the din at the bar. The Pogues had spun into the Dropkick Murphys and his limbs were loosened as he watched Wren lean up over the bar and order more whiskey. His eyes zeroed in on the ass of her jeans and he watched, fascinated, as his fingers wound their way into her belt loops and pulled her back against him. He heard her giggle and he leaned down to her ear, breathing his question once more.

Wren shivered and looked up at him from over her shoulder. "Five," she answered. "For me, anyway. You had a head start."

Murphy closed his eyes briefly and nodded, opening them once more as he felt Wren twist in his grip. She faced him, holding out another shot of whiskey. He grinned sloppily and plucked the glass from her fingers. They locked eyes, upending their glasses in unison, something he'd only ever achieved with Connor before. The thought clouded his brain, but the sweet burn of whiskey on his tongue brought him back to the present, especially when that taste was expanded tenfold with Wren's mouth on his. Her lips were soft and spicy with whiskey and Murphy groaned in the back of his throat. He dropped the shot glass and grabbed her about the hips with both hands, backing her into the bar and going for broke.

Shouts and jeers rose up around them, and when he heard a familiar voice rasping that maybe they should, "uh, I don't know, get a fucking room," Murphy reluctantly pulled away from Wren and grinned at Rocco, reaching to tousle the long dark hair on the Italian's head.

"Fuck, Murph!" Rocco groused, shrugging him off. The Funny Man shot Wren a goofy grin. "Can't you do something about that?"

Wren nodded. "I think I can. Watch him for a moment." She turned to the bar and turned back a minute later, clutching three shot glasses of whiskey. She handed one to Rocco and one to Murphy and then raised hers in salute. "If ya can't beat em, Roc," she crowed.

"Join 'em!" Murphy finished, before tossing the whiskey down his throat.

"Jesus Christ, you two are fuckin' alcoholics," Rocco muttered with a grin.

"Lord's name," Murphy scolded. He threw his arm over Wren again and pulled her close. Digging his nose into her hair, he breathed her scent and put his lips next to her ear. "I'm fuckin' buckled, girl," he admitted. "I think I need some air." His hand drifted down from her shoulder along her spine, and settled on the curve of one ass cheek where he squeezed softly.

Wren nodded, her gaze spacey and directed at Rocco. "Conn an' Pam are back there," she trailed off, waving her arm in the direction of the booth as Murphy dragged her out of the bar.

* * *

"Shouldn't we…you know…tell Connor…oh, yeah, Murph, right _there_…" Wren rambled, half-smashed and completely aroused as Murphy pinned her against the brick façade of McGinty's and dug his hand into the front of her jeans.

"He'll figure it out," Murphy growled, popping the button to her pants and sliding them along with her underwear down over her hips. He then wrestled with his own belt, swearing when his fingers didn't work properly.

"Let's take this back to my place," Wren suggested, stilling Murphy's hand with hers. She threaded her other hand through his hair and brought his mouth to hers again. "The walk will do you good."

Murphy let out an undignified sound that was similar to a whine, and rested his forehead against Wren's for a moment. "Aye," he sighed. He stood straight again and pulled Wren's jeans back up before refastening the button.

She snickered at his put-out behaviour and patted his shoulder. "Come on, Irish. Before we start giving Southie a free show."

Murphy mumbled something and pressed his lips against hers in a slightly drunken kiss. When his hand delved between her thighs and cupped her through her jeans, her eyes crossed and she caught his wrist, forcing his hand away. "Behave. It's a short walk, you can make it."

It was a difficult walk home. He trailed behind her, his head swaying with every step she took – it made her hips rock which in turn made her ass shake – and once or twice he had to stop her, drag her back against him, and kiss her until they were both panting. Then, he would let her go and watch her ass, his head swinging like a metronome. By the time they crashed through the front door of her loft, he'd shed his coat and his sweater, and was working on her pants as she tried to toe off her boots.

She was just as drunk as him – it didn't take much as she was so much smaller, but the result was the same. She was horny. She had been since he had kissed her in _Grayson's_, and now with him standing shirtless and breathless, his pale skin tinged slightly pink from whiskey kisses, her very core pulsed with wicked heat. His fingers were greedy, and so were his eyes, and when he'd managed to get her pants down for the second time that night, she pulled her shirt over her head and moaned when he did.

He attacked, forcing her back into the loft, his mouth heading straight for her breasts. He couldn't decide which one he liked better, so he alternated, back and forth, his tongue flicking out over the tight peaks of her nipples, his mouth sucking the soft skin around, and his fingertips trailing up and down her ribs. The entire effect made her squirm and buck her hips. He snagged her panties and shoved them down her legs and then tugged his belt open and kicked his way out of his jeans. He swept her leg and tumbled them down to the floor, rolling at the last moment to take the brunt of the impact. He grunted as she landed on top of him, giggling, and she sat up and swept her hair from her face.

"Eager little fucker, aren't you?"

Murphy's eyes narrowed and he smirked, flipping them once more so that now she was on her back and he hovered between her thighs. His hands slid over her belly and hips to her thighs, and he pried her legs apart until she was fully open to him. His eyes darkened with lust as he stared down at her. "I've been thinkin' about yer pussy all night," he growled, sinking to his elbows.

His words made her voice shake as she answered, "Yeah?"

"Hmm," he mumbled against the crease in her hip. "Thinkin' 'bout how sweet you taste. An' how much ya love it when I fuck ya with my tongue."

She shuddered and sighed, and felt arousal trickle from her body.

He hissed at the sight and ducked his head, swiping his tongue against her in one quick, broad motion. She cried out sharply and snared his hair in her fist. "I think you love it just as much," she countered, wrenching his head away from her pussy.

He shook free of her hold and watched as she scrambled out from under him and pushed him onto his back. "My turn," she whispered, crawling over him. When her knees were on either side of his head, she leaned up and snagged his hair once more. "Do a good job," she purred, "and I'll let ya fuck me after."

Nodding dazedly, Murphy's hands caught her hips and pulled her down to his mouth. He groaned at the contact, the slick, smooth surfaces of her and the way her clit bumped his nose. He shook his head back and forth experimentally and Wren shrieked and surged up. She looked down her torso at him and smiled, and then sank back down. One hand left her hip to hold her open, and as his tongue began to swirl and slide, he sank his middle and ring fingers in deep and worked her pussy from the inside out.

"Fuck," she growled, rocking her hips along his tongue. She hissed in pleasure and threaded her fingers through his thick dark hair. "Just like that," she crooned softly. "Oh, christ, Murphy, you're gonna make me come so hard."

She tasted better than whiskey, and made him twice as heady. She pulled his hair up into her fist and held him steady, grinding down against his mouth. Groaning, he licked at her, sucking her clit between his lips as his fingers pressed harder and deeper. Above him, she threw her head back and stared at the vaulted ceiling of the loft as Murphy's mouth created a cacophony of wet sounds. He licked and moaned and fingered her with abandon, and when he did pull away to catch a breath, it was coupled with encouragement. He urged her to come, he begged and he pleaded, and the raw lust and awe in his voice made Wren's guts clench pleasantly. She didn't even know she was coming until Murphy's voice wrapped around her.

"Ah, thassit, girl. Yer so amazin' when ya come like dat…" he rolled his tongue against her. "Do it again," he urged softly, his fingers barely moving.

It was enough for her to go off a second time, and this time she felt it through to her bones. Murphy's hand palmed her ass, steadying her, and she heard herself sobbing as her body slowly relaxed and began to slump. Pushing her back at her hips, Murphy managed to sit up halfway, his hair stuck out wildly, his mouth shining obscenely, and his blue eyes vibrant. His tongue flicked out to lick at his top lip and he grinned when Wren sighed and flopped back onto the floor with a small groan.

A few minutes later, she was certain her body wasn't going to cooperate and she was resigned to sleeping on the floor. Murphy's face soon appeared over hers, his smile firmly fixed on his face. "Don't think ya've ever come quite like _dat_," he purred. He bent his head, softly pressing his lips to hers and earning a groaning sigh. When he pulled back, he winked. "Did I do a good job?" he asked with a smirk.

"Hmmm," was Wren's only reply, and she faintly nodded, her eyes trying to focus on Murphy.

Murphy nodded, too. "Den, I guess dat means I get ta fuck ya now."

* * *

Murphy had jumped in the shower ten minutes ago. Because the place he shared with Connor had cold water most of the time, he liked to take his time in Wren's shower, singing off-key while standing directly under the spray. She'd seen him do it on several occasions. Right now, however, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, the paper-wrapped box sitting in her lap. Chewing her bottom lip, she quickly glanced to the bathroom door, which was slightly open, and listened to Murphy shuffling around under the water. She didn't have that much time left. She needed to hide this…or ditch it…do _something_ with it before Murphy wandered out again and took interest in it.

She sucked in a breath and tore the paper off. Just as she had expected, a polished wood box was underneath. The paper slid from her lap as her thumb lifted the latch on the lid. When she opened it, her breath caught in her throat. A SIG Sauer .357 stared back at her. A note was inside the box as well:

_Looks like you dropped something_.

- _M_

Shit, it was the gun. The one she'd used last night. How the _hell_ had Monaghan gotten a hold of it? She carefully pulled it out of the foam casing and turned it over in her hands. The water in the bathroom suddenly shut off and Wren panicked, her wide eyes turning to the bathroom door once more. She tore open the closest drawer on her dresser and stashed the piece inside, and slammed shut the box that it had arrived in. Just as Murphy stepped into the bedroom, Wren managed to shove the box under the bed with her foot and sprawl back into the covers.

"It's Saint Patty's day in a few weeks," Murphy announced, rubbing his dark hair with a fluffy white towel before wrapping it around his slim hips. He stretched out on the opposite side of the bed and propped his head up in his hand. "Was 'opin' ye'd come along wit' me and Connor an' Pam to celebrate."

Wren forced herself to pay attention to his words, but she was certain he'd sense her agitation. "Oh," she breathed, smiling tightly. "That's like the busiest day of the year for bartenders. Other than New Year's Eve. And Hallowe'en. Come to think of it, pretty much any day that ends in 'y' is the busiest. You can bet I'm working on Saint Patty's."

Murphy frowned and leaned up and over Wren, looking at her upside down. "All night?"

His lips brushed her forehead.

Wren stared back up into impossibly blue eyes. "Not _all_ night. But probably a good chunk of it." She made a face. "Last year I ended up with green fingertips for a week."

Murphy raised a curious eyebrow.

"Most bars dye their beer green."

It was Murphy's turn to make a face. "Now, that's a shame."

"Tell me about it. Anyway, it's a few weeks off. Let me see what the schedule looks like. I hate to give up all of those tips, though."

"Got sometin' fer ya," he murmured, kissing her on the forehead again. He rolled off the bed and found his jeans, and began digging through the pockets. A second later, he was back on the bed, leaning over her once more. He held his fist over her face and grinned.

"Shit, Murph, you gonna give me a black eye? That's so sweet; I'll fit right in with all the other women in Soutie."

Murphy growled playfully. "All right, ye feckin' smart ass." He opened his fist and a slender silver chain tumbled out, weighted down by a pendant shaped like a trinity knot. It twirled in Wren's line of vision and Murphy watched with baited breath as she focused on it and became silent.

"Wow," she breathed. She didn't say anything else, simply stared.

"Ah, feckin' hell," Murphy groused, palming the necklace once more and moving off of the bed.

Wren blinked at where the silver had caught the light and craned her neck to see Murphy stepping into his jeans, muttering to himself. "Murph," she said calmly.

"Feckin' stupidest idear I've ever had," he mumbled to himself.

"Murph," Wren said, this time a little louder.

He picked his dark head up at his name, his cheeks burning with the perceived rejection. His blue eyes cut sharply to hers. "I just thought…" his voice was tight and he closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. "I saw it and thought ye'd like it."

She smiled faintly. "Well, you never really let me look at it."

Murphy scrunched up his face. "Aye?"

She held her hand out. "Come on."

He reached back into his jeans pocket and held the necklace in his hand for a moment, opening his fingers and looking down at it. He reached out and poured it into Wren's palm.

She stared at it again and then pulled her lip up between her teeth. She looked up at Murphy. "Help me put it on?"

* * *

It was past midnight. Murphy was sprawled back on Wren's bed, snoring loudly and unaware that Wren sat on her balcony, the necklace in one hand and the gun in the other. She snorted at the ridiculous timing of the two, one a gift and the other a burden…but which was which? She sighed and dropped the necklace in the breast pocket of the button down shirt she wore, and lit a cigarette she'd stolen from Murphy. She inhaled. She exhaled. She held the barrel of the gun in line with the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes.

Wren had a pretty good idea as to what Murphy wanted that necklace to mean. She wanted it too, if she was honest with herself. She wanted it badly. But as she inhaled again she smelled graphite and gunpowder and felt the cool weight of the gun outweigh the delicate silver near her heart. With the cigarette held between her teeth, she unloaded the gun, slipping the clip and checking the sight. The gun went back together quickly, muscle memory making it more of a morbid habit. In the bedroom behind her, Murphy coughed, and Wren quickly slid the gun behind a potted plant and pulled her knees to her chest.

"Hey." He spoke gently, so as not to disturb whatever musing she was doing. He'd awoken to find the bed empty, but smelled the smoke and saw the white of her shirt reflected in the moonlight.

Wren turned her head. "Hey, back." She nodded her head to the balcony. "Come outside."

He joined her after he'd found a warm terry robe and tied it at the waist. She shifted so he could sink into the chair behind her, and she leaned back against his chest and reached her hand over her shoulder, holding the cigarette to his lips.

"Thanks," he mumbled, taking it and smoking silently.

She reached into her pocket and held the necklace out. "So…what does this mean?"

She felt him shrug. "Doesn't have ta _mean_ anytin', girl. Just that…I care an' I wanted ya ta have it."

"Cuz, you know, we haven't really _talked_ about…_that_. About _this_ being something more."

"Well," he started, exhaling a stream of smoke. "Do ya want it to be sometin' more?" He handed the cigarette back to Wren.

"I don't know," she replied honestly. If he'd asked her last week, she'd most certainly have said yes. But now, things were different. _She_ was different. She didn't want to bring Murphy into the mess her life was going to become.

"I think ya do," Murphy admitted quietly. "Ya just don't want ta come out an' say it."

"I think," Wren started, taking another drag of the cigarette, "that we shouldn't put labels on it. An' we shouldn't start making any confessions of ridiculous proportions. It will seem forced."

"So let it just go where it will?"

Wren nodded and once more handed the smoke back to Murphy.

"Aye," he agreed. He did so with a modicum of reluctance. He was actually hoping that he would have been able to crack the cool veneer that coated Wren, but she was always so guarded; more so in the past forty eight hours. Granted, she had seen someone shot. Maybe that had made her aware of her own mortality. That was probably it. Murphy pushed his slightly bruised ego aside and leaned forward, snaking an arm around Wren's waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. "I tink dis should go back in tha bedroom. An' you should let it."

And right then, Murphy's stomach growled audibly.

"Skip da bedroom," he reassessed. "Head fer tha kitchen."

Wren laughed and pulled the hand on her waist to her lips, pressing them to the ink on his forefinger. "I'm not cooking now. I'm sucky in the daylight. I can't imagine what I'd concoct at this hour. Let's get takeout."


	10. Chapter 10

She is sure to arrive early for her shift the next afternoon. Murphy's already gone, working another early morning at the plant, and so Wren has time to herself. She showers, watching how the water collects on her skin and the pendant hanging just above the space between her breasts. When she dresses, she wears a black top, cut low enough that the pendant shows. The metal warms against her skin, a soft reminder of the man that put it there. It is so much more comforting that lead and graphite. She likes the way the silver catches the light when she moves.

* * *

"Hey. Some guy over at table eight is asking for you."

Wren looks up at Bryant and cocks an eyebrow. "Murph?"

"No," Bryant answers slowly. "Thought I'm inclined to think he's Irish, too." He turns and looks to the aforementioned table.

Wren follows his gaze and sees the dark-haired doorman from _The Black Rose_. What was his name again? Ryan? She nodded to Bryant. "Yeah, he's...yeah," she sighs. "He's Irish." That's the only explanation she gives and she leaves her post behind the bar and wanders out into the lounge. "Hi," she says as she nears the table. "Ryan, right?"

He nods, a small smile crossing his features. "Sorry for tracking you down at your job," he begins.

She shrugs. "Not like Tommy didn't in the first place. What can I help you with?"

Ryan looks at her for a moment before continuing. "Gareghty wants to personally congratulate you on your…er…success. From the other night."

Wren's mouth forms a small 'o', and she gives a slight nod. "Okay," she prompts.

"He wants to have dinner tomorrow night."

Ryan seems uncomfortable for asking and Wren cocks her head. "Does he take his 'boyos' out for dinner when they do a good job?"

He sneers at the teasing tone of her voice and takes a sip from the beer bottle in front of him. "No."

"Why do I get the feeling that this is more than dinner?" It's a loathing feeling in the pit of her stomach. It's never been easy, being what she is and having to deal with the pissing contests, but she learned to stand a long time ago. She just likes to know what she's getting into.

"I'll be there," Ryan informs her. "Head of security, and all that. Monaghan, too. And Nate."

Wren nods. Of course. She says as much. "Where is it? This dinner, I mean."

"Anthony's Pier 4."

"I'm allergic to shellfish," she says dully.

Ryan frowns. "That's a shame. All right, you pick, I'll let Gareghty know."

"Mooo."

Ryan scowls, clearly confused. "Excuse me?"

"I said, 'Mooo', as in the steakhouse. On Beacon Street."

"Fine," Ryan chuckles. "Seven o'clock okay?"

"No," Wren answers smartly. "Make it eight. Have to make myself beautiful, you know."

"More than you already are?"

She detects clear sincerity in his voice and it makes her pause and stare. A flush begins on his neck and he shifts in place, clearly uncomfortable for running away at the mouth.

"You're cute," she smiles, because he is. "Beer is on me," she announces as she walks away.

* * *

"You clean up nicely," Donahue greeted as he wandered into the lounge and _Mooo_.

Wren looked down at the form-fitting purple silk dress and the black four inch heels. "What, this old thing?" she drawled flippantly.

Donahue smirked and took a seat next to her, ordering whiskey, neat. His suit was expensive, tailored, and Wren made note of his polished shoes and his Rolex. She reached out and tapped the face of it with a buffed nail. "Gareghty pays his security team well," she commented.

Donahue moved his hand from the bar, sliding his sleeve back down over his wrist. "It was a gift," he said.

She knew it was a lie. Something about Donahue didn't add up. It didn't make her uneasy, rather, it made her more comfortable. It was like he wasn't really working _for_ Gareghty, but rather just for himself. Like his own person was number one. She liked that. And, he was the easiest of Gareghty's lot to talk to. While Donahue stole looks like the rest of Gareghty's 'boyos', Donahue had the grace to look ashen when he was caught. The rest just leered at her and made rude comments.

She nodded at Donahue's false explanation and picked up her martini.

"You don't strike me as a martini-type," he said, watching as her lips curled around the glass.

She savoured the salt of the olives and the smooth burn of vodka and shrugged. "Beer doesn't really go with my outfit," she replied.

Donahue laughed out loud and when Wren fished a cigarette out of an impossibly tiny black clutch, he was there with a Zippo to light it. "So who's this meat packer Callahan is talking about?"

Wren blew out a stream of smoke and stared at Donahue. "Excuse me?"

He laughed and slipped the lighter back in his pocket and picked up his drink. "Callahan mentioned a guy in the picture. You said he was a meat packer. Tell me about him."

Wren shook her head, turning back to face the bar. "There's nothing to tell," she replied.

"Do you blush when you lie or when you think about him?"

Her eyes snapped back to Donahue and she felt heat rise from her chest, up her neck, and into her ears. She knew she was pink, and Donahue had a very good question. "He's just a guy," she shrugged.

"Does he treat you well?"

"Why do you care?" Wren asked, turning defensive.

Donahue shrugged and took a sip of whiskey. "I'd fix it if he wasn't."

"I'm not yours to fix."

He was silent for a moment. "Doesn't mean I can't be hopeful." He nodded at the pendant swinging between her breasts. "He give you that?"

Wren's hand moved automatically, clutching the silver like it is a lodestone. "Yes," she said after a beat.

"Did he tell you the meaning behind it?"

Wren blinked. "I didn't think there was one."

"It has a few different meanings…the trinity knot?" Donahue leaned forward, carefully plucking the delicate thing from her fingers. He traced it and touched each point as he spoke, "Past, present, future." He traced it again. "Body, mind, spirit." He did it a third time. "Creation, preservation, destruction." His dark eyes flicked up to hers, and found that she was breathing shallowly with his close proximity. His gaze fell to her lips and he tilted his head slightly, slowly closing the distance between them.

"There they are," a lilting voice announced.

Donahue's gaze swept up and over Wren's shoulder. He dropped the pendant. "Mr. Gareghty," Donahue addressed, standing and holding out his hand.

Wren swallowed thickly and slipped off of her stool, turning to see Gareghty, Callahan, Monaghan and her brother wander into the lounge.

"Ms. Abernathy," Gareghty greeted with his version of a charming smile. "You are a chameleon. That color is amazing on you."

"Thanks," she answered flatly.

"I see it takes more than flattery to warm you up." He nodded at the bartender. "Would you like another martini?" he asked Wren, ordering whiskey for himself.

"Actually," Wren started, "I was thinking more of a bottle of wine."

Gareghty gestured to the bartender. "Lady's choice."

"The 1990 Barbaresco."

Donahue choked on his whiskey. He must have seen the menu. Wren had just ordered a three hundred dollar bottle of wine.

The bartender looked to Gareghty for confirmation who merely nodded. "I'll have it brought to your table, sir," the bartender offered, and then left to fetch the bottle.

"I've been told our table is ready," Gareghty informed, turning to the dining room. A waiter was hanging back near the doorway, waiting to escort them.

The group filed out, Wren and Donahue coming last. His hand was warm as it landed gently on the small of her back, gently guiding her through the lounge into the dining area. When they arrived at their table, he pulled out her chair and pushed it back in when she sat. Curious, she watched as he sat to her left. Donahue was definitely not of the same stock as the rest of Gareghty's men. In fact, Donahue's manners and ridiculous charm made her think of Ivy League schooling and summers spent in the Hamptons. She only half noticed when Nate sat to her right. Gareghty took the seat directly across from her, Callahan at his left and Monaghan on his right. The waiter soon returned with the bottle of wine and, after Wren had deemed it acceptable, a round was poured.

When they were alone, Gareghty spoke. "Mickey tells me that you did an outstanding job the other night." He opened his menu and casually looked it over, the tone of his voice light as if he were speaking of the weather.

"I pulled a trigger," Wren stated coolly. "The gun just happened to be pointed in the right direction."

Gareghty smirked and glanced up from his menu. "Well, I guess I should be praising your aim. Are you really as good as they say you are from far away?"

Wren shifted in her seat and glanced at her brother who was too busy craning his neck and looking around at the other parties in the dining room. She looked back to Gareghty. "Are you asking for a demonstration?"

Gareghty rubbed his mouth with his fingertips. "Perhaps." A waiter appeared. "But first, I think we'll eat. Save business for after dinner. Do you know what you're having?"

* * *

"How is your steak?" Gareghty lightly asked Wren, cutting another bite of his meal.

Wren twirled her fork with an air of boredom and brought it down into the centre of the Australian Kobe beef. "It sucks," she answered simply. She tossed her napkin across the plate and reached for her wine.

Beside her, Ryan hid a chuckle, but Nate burst out laughing. Gareghty looked at him closely and then shifted his gaze back to Wren. "Apparently your brother thinks it's amusing that you find a hundred-dollar cut of beef lacking." He grinned and took a sip of his water. "Or maybe you're just being difficult, hmm? Your brother's fingers are still healing from the last time you decided to be stubborn."

Nate's laughter died off and he looked at his still bandaged fingers with a bit of a frown.

Wren remained silent, glaring at Gareghty from over the rim of her wineglass. He set his fork down rather forcefully and waved for a nearby waiter. "The lady isn't enjoying her dinner," Gareghty explained, gesturing to Wren and her barely touched plate.

"Is it not cooked to your liking?"

Wren glanced up at the waiter and then back to Gareghty. "I'm just not hungry." She reached and upended the bottle of wine over her glass, pouring an obscene amount and emptying the bottle at the same time. "But I'm very thirsty. Can you bring another bottle?" She smiled sweetly at the waiter, who merely shot her a withering glance and removed her plate.

"Would gentlemen excuse us for a moment?" Gareghty suddenly spoke up, nodding to Tommy and Nate. When it was just himself, Donahue, Monaghan, and Wren, Gareghty stood up from his spot and slid into the chair that Nate had occupied. "Now, I'm not about to try and decipher the mind of a woman," he began, sliding an arm across the back of Wren's chair. "But I draw the line at dealing with insolent brats." His hand slid to the back of her neck and squeezed tightly, digging his thumb into the space just below her jaw. He yanked her head to face him and stared into her eyes. "M'only going to explain this once: ya work for me, now. Ya keep doin' as I ask, and we'll get along famously." His smile faded and a mask of steel and ice fell over his features as he drew Wren closer to his face. "Ya make me mad, though…" he trailed off and his free hand clamped on her knee and fisted the delicate material of her dress, "an' we might have a problem. You've seen how I deal with the boyos. You sure you want ta know how I deal with girls?" His grip tightened on both her knee and her neck.

Wren nodded stiffly. "Okay," she croaked. Gareghty's fingers loosened on her neck, but remained on her knee. "I understand." She met his gaze and held it, unwavering, until Gareghty smiled and removed his hand from her leg.

"Do ya?"

Wren nodded again. "Yes. What do you need me to do?"


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Arrival at Angsty-Town at the end of this chapter. Kinda needed to start movnig things along. Can only be without action for so long, yes? Anyway, I decided I'd throw another two chapters up and leave y'all hanging in the breeze. I'm headed back to work part time this week so you might not see an update for a little bit longer this time. I've been trying for one about every two days but with work starting again and still taking care of Archer, I might be a bit wiped. Don't worry, faithful readers, I won't leave you hanging for long. It's a brutal place to leave off, but it works in any event. Enjoy. Reviews = Norman Reedus love sent your way. When he's done in my shower, I'll tell him to send out the love._

_On another tangent, DeDe324's 'Ashes and Wine' (fab read, go read that now. Skip this chapter, just go to her story, I have a feeling you'll all hate me for leaving off where I did) has shortened her characters' names into the loveable 'ConKher'...I had to play around a bit with my OC's and came up with Murphen and Connela. Just thought I'd share. I'm weird like that._

* * *

A SIG P226 .357 holds between ten and fifteen rounds. Wren had always taken pride in the fact that she never needed to reload between jobs until she'd spent her last bullet.

1. Sergei Kozlov

He's a slimy little fuck, and surrounds himself with trashy women and cheap drugs. She finds him holed up in a dim room of a Howard Johnson, pants around his ankles and a blonde and a redhead on their knees before him. The women shriek, disgusted and petrified as Kozlov's blood spatters their upturned faces. When she's done, Wren leaves the room, hangs the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door despite the hysterical screaming now coming from the room. She ditches the maid's uniform and slinks into a little black dress. She hails a cab and takes it downtown to a bar and orders champagne.

2. Joey Poletti

She's done this a handful of times: posed as a single young woman at a bar looking for a good time with a bad boy. Poletti sees easy prey in the diminutive blonde in the white dress. Wren speaks softly, giggles, flirts, and lets him buy her drinks. When he suggests they take this back to his place, she jumps at the chance, playing dumb and drunk and staggering out to the cab. Her laughter is harsher now, and she has to swallow the bile in her throat as he puts his hands all over her. She puts a bullet in his head, between his eyes, and strips the blood-stained dress from her body. She pulls her coat back on and ties it tightly at the waist. She walks this time, all through Southie, pausing to toss the dress into a drum fire. Murphy thinks she's dressed in nothing just for him. She doesn't say otherwise.

3. Tomasz Markovic

Tomasz is actually Ukrainian, but don't tell that to his boss. He also prefers brunettes to blonds and Wren is a bit too feminine for him. She uses Nate this time, threatening to break fingers on his other hand if he doesn't cooperate. It gives her a sick sense of satisfaction to see her brother squirm with unease as Tomasz leans in too close and plays with the pale blond hair at the nape of Nate's neck. When the Ukrainian lures Nate to a dark booth at the back of the club, Wren watches and waits, and when five minutes pass, she stands and moves through the club. Nate is pressed into the bench, Tomasz's hands are all over him, and so he doesn't notice Wren pull the gun, doesn't hear the click of the hammer, and doesn't know his life is over until blood is pouring out of a gaping hole in his chest. She's shot him point-blank, the sound unheard with the pounding music, and this time Nate is covered in blood and Wren merely turns and walks away.

4. Kristov Kaminski

He answers the door of his basement apartment and shoots her a level gaze. She asks if his name is Kaminski and when he confirms (because she's a slip of a thing and why should he be worried about her?), she nods and holds up a large parcel. She tells him it got delivered to her place by mistake, that she just moved in upstairs (she's done her research and discovered that there really is a vacant space up there) and that she thought she'd take the opportunity to get to know the neighbours. She affects naivety and Kaminski buys it, inviting her in for coffee. He calls it 'kaffee' and serves it black and bitter. She knows better than to be swayed by his friendly nature. She knows he's killed three cops, good men with families, and she knows he's beaten two hookers, a waiter, a cabbie, and sold drugs to impressionable children. She knows he's asked for the bullet in his face.

5. Sal Barsetti

This one is a little bit more of a challenge. He's good looking, for one, and charming, for another, with dark hair and dark eyes and smooth olive skin. He's not a moron, either, unlike the others, and Wren wonders why he's still a low level underboss. His backhand to her cheekbone gives her some indication. He's got a temper, and he's not afraid to spill blood or get caught. He strikes her in the street when she refuses to let him buy her lunch. She didn't want to appear easy. People walk by and don't say anything; they don't even look at her as she cups her face and whimpers an apology to Sal. She says she'll make it up to him. She can't go for lunch; she doesn't have time, but if he's got ten minutes…she makes eyes at the alley off of Waltham Avenue. He sneers and hauls her by her upper arm to the appointed place and she winces when her knees hit the dirty, wet pavement of the alley. She falls forward, her hands pressing against his thighs as his mouth curls cruelly. The shot rings out clearly and his face becomes a mask of wonder and humiliation. She's never shot a man in the junk before. She tells Murphy that the bruise on her cheek is from a wayward bottle of whiskey in the stock room. She gets him to tumble her to her hands and knees on the carpet so she can wave off the scrapes as rug burn.

6. and 7. Sasha and Vasily Romanov

The cousins know how to _party_. She's faced with a mountain of cocaine in the VIP room of _Ice_ and she feels compelled to play her part. Blow before the blow. One line won't hurt. But one line turns to two turns to more and soon she's swept up in the vodka that flows too easily. The lights dance and she's wedged between Sasha and blonde woman. She can tell that Vasily wants to see a show by the way he cuts coke and hands the mirror around, his hazel eyes burning into Wren. The other blonde talks the cousins into another private room and Wren does another line before she heads into the bathroom to freshen up. When she's in there, she attaches a silencer to the SIG, knowing that a guard will be placed just outside their room. She wanders back in, rubbing the residue of cocaine from her fingers to her gums. She's so high. Her blood is rushing through her veins and grocery lists and things to do scramble through her brain before she raises the gun and puts one bullet in Sasha's heart and the other in Vasily's skull. The other blonde barely has time to scream before the butt of the gun comes down on the bridge of her nose, knocking her out. Wren stumbles to the door and opens it a crack, slipping outside. "They need more blow," she giggles. The guard nods and she steps by. She picks up the scattered vials and turns to see the guard poke his head back into the room. She forces her feet to work faster than her brain and suddenly she is in a cab and halfway across town, and powdering her nose.

8. Tony Romano

He'd asked her how he looked in his suit. She had laughed and told him she didn't work at the store. He'd shrugged and told her that he'd rather have her opinion that some peanut-dicked faggot's. She sighed but smiled and told him to turn around towards the mirror just inside the dressing room. Behind him, she muttered things about cut and fit and wool and cashmere, all earning a face-splitting grin from him. Her hands worked as her mouth did, brushing off imaginary lint, straightening the shoulders, and finally digging the barrel of the SIG into his kidney. He had stiffened and she had kicked his feet, forcing him back into the dressing room. The silencer was still in place. Tony was easy. He was short and slight, almost like her, and so there was barely a struggle. He did, however, leave a bloody handprint on her arm and so she grabbed his scarf and draped it over top. She wore it around her neck later that night and Murphy commented on how the color made her eyes bright.

9. Nikolai Zelenko

He buys pastrami on rye at Greenburg's Deli and ducks back into his small car. There is a paper-wrapped pickle with his lunch and he sets it and a can of Czechvar on the dashboard before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a bottle of hand sanitizer. He rubs it briskly between his hands, eyeballing his well-deserved lunch. She shoots him before he can crack open the beer and she curses as the pickle rolls onto the floor. Greenburg's makes the best pickles.

* * *

Nine men dead. Two and half weeks. The Boston PD, while informing the public that they don't have any leads, are on the verge of having someone from Washington sent in. Ted Greenly can't string together a theory to save his life, and Neil Duffy sees it as a blessing in disguise. They can't put these assholes behind bars and someone has taken it upon themselves to do a little light cleaning. Of course, this 'cleaner' is making matters worse. Either no one is talking or no one actually saw anything. A call goes out to Washington the first week of March and they send one of their best from the Organized Crime unit. The reports are reviewed and the conclusion is thus: a string of bad luck for a bunch of soldiers and wiseguys. Maybe drug deals gone bad, maybe personal vendettas. The files stay open, of course, but they get pushed to the back of the pile because no one is _that_ keen on finding out who's doing such a nice job of cleaning up the joint. The hairdo from Quantico goes back and for a while, things seem to settle down.

But Agent Paul Smecker knows better and when that first agent returns from Boston, it leaves a sour taste in Smecker's mouth. It tastes like bullshit. It tastes like lazy work on both ends. It tastes like someone isn't talking. He gets clearance to take over the cases, and while he doesn't find anything out of the ordinary (much to his chagrin), he knows that he's barely scratched the surface. He will lie in wait. Maybe drink a latte or two. Maybe get drunk and pick up someone in a bar. Maybe listen to Puccini.

* * *

"M'goin' te have te go home eventually," Murphy mumbled from under a pillow.

Wren groaned and snuggled into his side, sliding her fingertips over his belly. "No," she pouted. "Stay today."

He moved the pillow aside and chuckled. "I need clean unders, girl." He shifted and sat up on the edge of the bed, and reached for his cigarettes.

Wren moved with him, her arm wrapped around his midsection as she knelt behind him. Her lips fluttered over the nape of his neck and trailed behind his ear, making him shiver. "There's a pair here, from that first night."

Murphy looked over his shoulder and caught her eye. "Oh, aye?" He tucked a cigarette into the corner of his mouth.

She nodded and pressed her lips to his cheek quickly. "Yep. I have to pee. I'll be back." She hopped out of bed and padded to the bathroom.

"Where are they, girl?" he called after her, standing and stretching.

"Ummm…top drawer on the left, I think."

He shifted to the chest of drawers next to the bed and pulled open both top drawers and began to sift through lacy bras and panties, tiny camisoles, a .357 SIG Sauer, socks, and finally his boxers.

His blue eyes snapped back to the handgun. "Fuck me," he breathed, lifting it out carefully with one hand. The cigarette in his mouth dangled, forgotten.

"Did you find them?"

Murphy turned to Wren's voice, clutching his boxers in one hand and the gun in the other. "Aye, I did, girl." He tilted the gun in his hand. "The fuck is this?"

Wren paused her teeth flossing. "It's a gun, Murph."

His eyebrows went up with her glib tone. "I can see that, Wren. What the feck is a gun doin' in yer underwear drawer?" He stared back at her. Neither of them spoke or moved for a spell. "Wren," he finally said. "I asked ye a question."

She looked him steadily in the eye. "Boston isn't the safest place to live," she said tightly. She gave him half a smile that didn't reach her eyes, and turned back to the bathroom.

Murphy followed, weighting the gun in his hands. Slipping the clip, his suspicions were confirmed when he came up with an almost empty clip. "Why are ye feckin' lyin' t'me?" he called after her.

Wren barely acknowledged him from where she stood, brushing her teeth and staring down in to the sink. "I'm not." Boston really wasn't the safest place to live, especially so close to Southie. Her gut pulled as she spat in the sink, and she couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze.

Murphy ground his teeth against his flaring temper. She was hiding something from him. He hated secrets, and hated mind games even more. He'd dropped women hotter than Wren simply for the fact that sooner or later, he caught them in a lie. If there was any one virtue that Murphy held close to his heart, it was honesty. "This holds twelve rounds. Ya've got three bullets left," he snapped. He drove the clip back home and turned back to her bedroom. Setting the gun on the dresser, he wrenched open the top drawer once more. "What else have ya got in here?"

"Murphy, what the hell!" she shrieked, stalking back across the carpet. She clawed at his shoulder and turned him around to see two vials of cocaine cradled in his palm.

"Aye, girl, what the hell," he hissed. "Look at me," he growled.

She seemed to steel herself before flicking her eyes to his gaze. "What," she snapped.

Her eyes were hard. Cold, even. The dark blue of them cut Murphy to the quick and he swallowed against lashing out at her. Instead he merely nodded once, tightly, and turned back to the bedroom. Whoever that blonde in the bathroom was, it wasn't Wren – not _his_ Wren. His Wren he could look upon and feel at ease, feel warmth and security and…and _truth_. The woman in the bathroom was an iced-over carbon copy of that. He didn't like it. He slammed the vials down next to the gun. "I think ya better start talkin'."

"I think you should mind your own business," she replied in a steely voice.

He visibly flinched and his brows knitted together in a scowl. "I can't fuckin' believe you," he breathed. "What kinda shit are ya in?" He paused and frowned, going for what he hoped was the truth. "Are ya in trouble, girl?" He softened his voice, tipping his head.

"Nothing I can't get out of," Wren shot back.

"I don't like this," Murphy admitted.

"Yeah, and it's a fucking joyride for me, Murph."

"Tell me what's goin' on," he pressed.

Wren pushed past him and opened her drawer again, replacing the gun and the cocaine. "My life isn't an open book for discussion," she answered. "I don't know every little detail about you."

"Aye, but if ye found a gun in me house an' asked me about it, I'd tell ye honestly!" He shook his head. "Cocaine, Wren? Really? When the fuck did we take a time machine back ta tha eighties?"

"It's not mine," she muttered. It was Vasily Romanoff's.

"So that's how this is gonna be? Yer just gonna lie ta me face?"

With a snarl she slammed the drawer shut and spun on Murphy. "No, you know what? This isn't gonna be _any_ way. You're right, I'm lying to you, and you should probably get as far as fuck away from me as you can, all right?"

Murphy yanked his jeans on, the boxers clearly forgotten, and scooped up his shirt and his belt. "I'm already out the fuckin' door." He trampled down the steps and she listened as he pulled on his boots and jacket, pocketed his keys, and then yanked open the door.

She waited for the door to slam. He was hesitating, she knew it. Quickly, she moved for the stairs and ran down after him, ready with the truth. As she slid through the kitchen, however, the door slammed shut and she heaved a tiny sob. The fridge collided with her back and she slid down, her head between her knees and her tears falling on the tile floor.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Google the firearms used! They do exist! All of my firearm knowledge is via Wikipedia, the most reliable source of information on earth (note sarcasm). Honestly, I know nothing about guns, otherwise. Or cocaine use, just the little bit of research I did for the chapter. Thanks to you all for your reviews, your favorites, your follows... SHAMELESS PIMPING ALERT If you have a thing for Norman Reedus as Daryl Dixon, please check out my Walking Dead one shot 'H2 Whoa'. I think you might like it. Now then, ready for a trip? Here we go..._

* * *

Her buzzer sounded. At first, she wasn't certain; she thought it might be the effects of too much whiskey and a line of coke, but as she shook her head and her vision wobbled, the buzzing grew louder. More insistent. She then realized that it was the buzzer for the door downstairs. Groaning, she heaved herself up off of the couch and shuffled to the intercom.

"What," she answered flatly.

"It's Connor."

She took her finger off of the 'talk' button and swore. Great, that was all she needed. She pressed the button again and asked hoarsely, "What do you want?"

"I want to talk."

_More like chew me out for fighting with Murphy_. "Fuck off," she sighed, letting go of the button and turning back to the couch.

She sank into the cushions and picked up the vial of cocaine, rolling it between her fingers. "In for a penny," she muttered, pulling the stopper out and dumping the contents onto the glass table top of her coffee table. Reaching for the expired Visa card she'd been using to cut lines, she was startled by the loud thumping on her front door.

"Wren," Connor's voice growled from the other side. He pounded the door again. "Open the feckin' door."

She snorted at his antics and then leaned over the table, sucking back the line of coke and rubbing the excess against her gums. She felt the effects instantaneously, and shook her head, breathing in and out a few times. Her heart pounded delightfully. Kinda like when Murphy would kiss her. Connor hammered the door again, making her laugh, and she wove her way around the couch to the front door, swinging it wide open to find the lighter MacManus drawing his fist back to pound on the door once more.

"You wanna take it easy on the door?" she snapped. She sniffed and rubbed her nose with her thumb.

Connor, fist still raised, gaped at Wren. "Christ on the cross, lass, ya look like _shit_."

Wren glanced down, still wearing the underwear and camisole duo from when Murphy stormed out… when exactly was that? She hadn't bothered with her hair, merely tucked the tangled mess back behind her ears. The way she was buzzing, she guessed her eyes were wide, pupils like dinner plates, and she had that manic look in her eyes. She could feel the sweats starting already; small drops of perspiration oozing up through her pores and making her shiver and itch at the same time. Add to that the smell of stale whiskey, and she had to nod with Connor's assessment.

"Thanks for noticing," she shrugged.

Connor narrowed his eyes and pushed past her, into the loft.

"Sure, come on in, stay a while," Wren mumbled, watching as he stalked clear into her living room and surveyed the area.

He'd been to her place a handful of times, mostly just stopping in with Murphy to pick her up on the way to the bar or to dinner, and those times he had noticed the pristine care that Wren took to keep everything in order. He was actually in awe of it; Pam lived in a state of perpetual chaos, citing that she could find anything at anytime within the strategically placed piles of clutter. Looking around Wren's living room, and then on into the kitchen, Connor was surprised at the disarray he found.

There were at least two empty whiskey bottles on the kitchen counter, and he spotted a third that was half-way to empty on the table in front of the couch. Various take-out containers littered that same table and the bar in the kitchen; chopsticks and a smashed fortune cookie made an interesting statement on the carpet next to the couch. He counted seven empty cans of cheap beer, two newspapers spread sporadically around the floor, open to the city new section. A few articles had been torn out. The ashtrays were overflowing, half-smoked cigarettes dangling over the edges, and there, on the one semi clean corner of the table, was a little glass vial, its contents dumped and cut into three perfect lines.

Connor growled and moved for the table. Leaning down, he shovelled the contents off from left to right, sweeping the newspaper clippings, two beer cans, a pizza crust, and the cocaine onto the carpet. Wren yelped and jumped forward; clutching his arm and trying to pull him back before her little pile of hurt dumped to the floor. Connor whirled, staring at her as she desperately hung from his bicep, her blue eyes wide with horror as she surveyed the scene.

"Asshole," she snapped, shoving him aside.

He watched uncomfortably as Wren lifted the newspaper and inspected the damage. She sighed, crouching down to the floor, her back against the couch, and reached for another cigarette and the bottle of whiskey. She lit her smoke and took a healthy drag, letting the bottle swing from the fingertips of her other hand. Refusing to look at Connor, she stared at the fireplace.

"Feel better now that you've swooped in and saved the day?" Wren muttered. She took a slug of whiskey. The bottle had barely come away from her mouth when it was wrenched from her hands and tossed into the fireplace. It smashed, and she winced at the sound and the way the golden liquid bled out all over the brick. She felt Connor's hand wrap around her bicep and yank her up, and she sputtered and tried to fight him off with one hand, cigarette clamped between her teeth. She twisted in his grip, kicking her legs out when he finally had her upright with one arm secured around her torso. With his other hand he tore the cigarette from her mouth, and he hauled her kicking and screaming into the kitchen.

"Quit yer bitchin'," Connor barked, shoving her to the sink. He wrenched the cold tap on full blast and pitched her forward, dunking her head under the icy deluge.

"Shit – fuck, _Conn_, you fuckin'…Agghhh!" Her voice was cut off as the water poured down over her face. The more she thrashed, the tighter he held.

"Settle da fuck down!" He bellowed, wrestling with her. She reached a hand to the taps and Connor moved to stop her.

As soon as her fingers wrapped around his wrist, she twisted it with a flick of her own, sending a blast of pain up Connor's forearm. Swearing, he let go of her, shoving her away and backing up at the same time. She whirled, her wet hair spinning as she did, sending water everywhere. Connor went for her elbows, trying to hold onto, but her hands collided with his chest, pushing him back into the counter. He took her with him, and she crashed into his chest and felt his arms wrap around her like steel cables. Growling, she snarled up at him, her blue eyes flashing.

They were pressed so tightly together that Connor could feel her heart hammering against his own ribs. Her hips pressed dangerously close to his and when he saw the determined spark in her eyes, it was too late. She launched herself at him, clawing his hair, her mouth forcing itself onto his in a desperate attempt to distract him.

It worked.

The kiss was hard, bruising, and unfriendly. But it was still a kiss and, for a split second, Connor's brain shut down. Her tongue slid across his, murky with whiskey and sickly sweet from the cocaine lining her gums. She knew when his arms relaxed a fraction that she had him. She sank her teeth into his bottom lip hard.

"Fucking _dog_," she hissed, raking her fingers down from his scalp to his jaw. He was glad that she kept her nails shorter than Pam's, but the sting still set fire to his face, making him howl in protest.

She was absolutely fucking _rabid_, and he twisted out of her grip before things got really out of control. "Jesus _Christ_, Wren," he snapped. He barely managed to block a well-placed knee; the blow glanced off of his thigh but still sent a shockwave of agony through the muscle. He shouldered her back, refusing to lay a hand on her.

The petite blonde tumbled back into her counter as Connor pushed her to a safe distance, and her hand swept out, scrabbling for purchase on the marble top. Instead, she swept the mess off and slid down after it, crashing to the floor on the other side of the counter. For a moment, Connor heard nothing save for their combined laboured breathing. His mouth stung from where she had bit him, and he tasted blood. He heard her scrabbling along the tile and the pile of takeout boxes and cigarette packs that had gone down with her. The tinkle of broken glass brought his head up and he winced, rubbing the charley horse from his thigh. Christ, he hoped she hadn't cut herself.

"Wren?" he called out cautiously. He took a hesitant step forward, and when she didn't answer, he moved again, and crouched to the floor.

Peeking around the counter, he found her huddled back against the fridge, bleeding at the knees and forearm. Her eyes were wild as she glared at him, and when he took a step forward she scrambled back on the tile, pushing her feet into the glass and ashes from the broken ashtray. She didn't even notice as several new cuts formed on her feet, and Connor winced as she left smeared footprints of blood and ash.

He duck-walked forward, only to have Wren steel herself against the fridge and push herself up. Her arm shot out blindly, reaching behind the toaster, her eyes still fixed on him. Connor took a chance and stood, and at that moment, her arm swung around, brandishing an MK23 pistol in his face.

"Shit," Connor muttered, freezing, snapping his head back and throwing his hands up in submission. "Wren, put the fucking gun away. M'not gonna hurt ya."

The gun waved slightly in her grip, but she sucked in a breath and straightened her arm, snapping the gun out. "Get out."

Connor's eyes widened and he took a step back. "Okay, lass. It's me. It's Connor."

"Yeah, I fucking know it's you, Connor! I don't want to see your jackass brother; what makes you think I want to see you?"

"Cuz ya opened the fuckin' door?" Connor shot back, trying to lighten the mood.

Wren snorted, rolling her eyes, and drew the gun back, waving it in a circle next to her temple in a crazy gesture. "Drug induced haze," she shot back.

"Yeah," Connor breathed, "I can plainly see dat. Yer not tinkin' clearly den, aye? Put the fucking gun _down_," he pleaded.

"Think I'm going to shoot myself?" she chuckled darkly. Like lightening, her hand flashed out, aimed, and fired. The cabinet directly over Connor's left shoulder exploded in a shatter of pressed wood, and Connor swore loudly, ducking down and covering his head.

"Holy _fuck_!" he snarled.

"I'm an excellent shot, Connor. That was a warning. I don't miss. Get _out_."

Connor was nothing, if not determined, and so when he lowered his hands and moved past Wren, turning his back to her, he moved on faith and spun back, knocking her right hand up, pushing the pistol up with it. It fired again, and the overhead light popped and showered glass down. He closed his hand over hers, wrenching her wrist behind her and back down. Her arm twisted at a painful angle behind her and she winced as she felt Connor's breath against her neck.

"M'not leavin' ya here like dis," he hissed. He wrenched her hand back a fraction of an inch, mimicking the move she put on him earlier.

She grunted in pain and snapped her head forward, connecting with Connor's forehead. Her fingers numbed and the gun slid from her grasp as Connor staggered backwards and sprawled to the floor. His fingers pressed where she'd connected with him; the impact had split the skin and he bled freely from a cut just above his eyebrow. She hopped over the gun and fled past him, getting no further than a foot beyond where he sat. His hand flashed out and caught her ankle, hauling her down to the floor once more. He crawled over broken glass and her blood until he was above her, his knees corralling her hips and his hands pressing hers back to the floor. She thrashed again and Connor held on like he was riding a mechanical bull.

The fight left her suddenly, and she sagged beneath him, her eyelids fluttering. Her hands went slack in his hold and she shuddered, turning her eyes away from him with a pained sob. "Get out," she breathed.

"Wren," Connor said softly, drawing his hands back and taking his weight off of her.

She felt tears leak from her eyes and she sucked in a ragged breath. "Please, Connor," she muttered in a small voice. "Get out."

The brutal truth of the situation smacked Connor in the face. He had no idea what he was doing. He knew what he wanted to do, but he'd never done it before – never had to confront one of Murphy's girlfriends while she was hopped up on coke and whiskey and fighting something that clearly had nothing to do with either MacManus brother. He felt sick as he slowly stood, and he ran a shaking hand through his hair. He took a step back, and then another. Turning to leave the kitchen, and ultimately her loft, the hitch in her breath caused him to pause. He didn't turn around, merely glanced back out the corner of his eye.

"Don't," she whispered from where she was curled in a ball on the floor. "Don't tell Murphy."

* * *

Pam opened the door of her brownstone and started at the sight of Connor on the other side. There was a cut above his eyebrow that had stopped bleeding, but streaks of red had dried on his cheekbone. His bottom lip was swollen and cut, and it looked like he'd been clawed in the face.

"Hey," Connor breathed, shooting her a tight smile.

Pam arched an eyebrow. "Do I want to know what the other guy looks like?" she muttered. Sucking a breath between her teeth, she reached out and touched the cut over his eye.

Connor winced and caught her hand, pulling it to his mouth and kissing her fingertips. "Can I come in, lass?"

Pam hesitated slightly, and then stepped aside. "I'll get the first aid kit."


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N:A lot of speculation as to the character of Ryan Donahue…I swear, he started off as a doorman and just developed from there but he does have an integral role now. To give you an idea of what he looks like, google Jamie Dornan. 'Nuff said. Anyway, we're going down the rabbit hole and I'm not sure when we'll come back out…St. Patty's day is approaching fast…_

_There is a Star Wars quote in here...can you find it? If you do...I'll write you a one-shot with the twin of your choice. PM me with your answers! First correct answer wins access to my smutty mind!_

* * *

"What the hell happened in here?"

Wren groaned at her brother's wide eyes, hanging off of the door. "What the fuck do you want?" It had been hours since Connor had left, and her saving grace had been the last vial of coke in her dresser drawer, halfway gone up her nose an hour before.

Nate frowned and pushed the door wider, causing Wren to stumble back and lean against the wall. Looking around, Nate took in the cluttered mess in the living room and the kitchen beyond. "Shit, you're high, aren't you," he stated. He glanced down. "Are you bleeding?" He looked back into the hallway. "Donahue, get in here."

She looked up at the name and felt her face heat with shame as she locked eyes with Ryan. Her eyes quickly snapped to the floor and she scratched the back of her neck. "I'm fine. It's fine. It's okay."

Nate looked closer at his sister. Her limbs were shaking with over exertion and he guessed that she was starting to come down from however much coke she had ingested. "Go sit down," he sighed, pushing her towards the couch.

"Don't touch me," she snapped, shrugging his hand off of her shoulder.

Nate's slate gray eyes were cutting. He hissed his next words in Russian: "_Quit being a brat and sit down. You're a fucking mess. Get a hold of yourself._" He dragged her to the couch and she let him, exhausted from her earlier exertions with Connor. "Donahue, get some water, would ya?"

She silently listened to Donahue rummage through her cupboards. "Uh…" he looked back across the room to Nate. "All of the glasses are…shattered."

Wren snorted, suddenly remembering that she had shot that cupboard out. "Whoops," she mumbled.

"Hold on," Donahue muttered. The tap turned on a few seconds later, and then he crossed the kitchen, his shoes crunching through the mess of glass and wood and other debris. "Here." He thrust a Tupperware container full of water under Wren's nose.

She glanced up at him with a raised eyebrow and he shrugged. She took it and drank deeply, handing the container back once it was empty.

"I'll get some more," Donahue muttered, more to himself than anything else. He disappeared back into the kitchen.

"What happened?" Nate softly inquired.

"Slight weapons malfunction," Wren replied. She shrugged. "Everything's fine here now, thanks. How are you?" She glared at Nate. "I haven't been compromised. I'm still able to work of your debt."

Nate swallowed thickly and pushed off the couch, the weight of his sister's gaze too heavy for him. "Gareghty wants to meet again."

"No," Wren said stiffly. She shook her head and reached for the overturned ashtray on the carpet and then sifted through the mess on the table for a cigarette. She heard the _click_ and _snap_ of a Zippo and a lit cigarette was thrust into view. Donahue held it out to her, half a smile on his lips. "Thank you." She took it and smoked some. "What day is it?"

"Tuesday," Donahue said from where he had sank onto the couch beside her.

"The date," Wren clarified.

"Sixteenth."

She groaned. "I have to work tonight."

"Call in sick," Nate snapped. He turned from where he was pacing and stared at Wren. "Maybe you forgot. You work for Gareghty now…"

"I don't need a reminder," Wren interrupted.

"Are you sure? Cuz he's ready to break my other fingers…"

"You think I give a _fuck_ about your fingers, Nate? I hope he puts a goddamn bullet in your brain just so I can be free of this shit again! Do you know how fucked up things are now?" Wren was screaming by now and Donahue looked between the two, clearly uncomfortable.

"I know _exactly_ how fucked up they are! Do you think Gareghty cares if I'm alive or dead? Jesus _Christ_, Wren, he doesn't want_ me_. It's been _you_ all along!"

Wren's head snapped up and her eyes narrowed. "You don't owe him twenty thousand, do you?"

Nate jerked his gaze away.

Wren clambered up from the couch. "Answer me, shit head!" She stormed across the floor and shoved him, making him whirl towards her. The answer was clear as day in his eyes. "He paid _you_, didn't he?" Wren asked lowly. When Nate didn't answer, she got into his face. "Didn't he?" she roared.

Nate shook his head, a flat smile on his face. Glancing at Donahue, he ignored his sister. "I gotta meet with Callahan. He's fighting next week. Keep an eye on her, would ya?" He moved to the door and glanced back at Wren. "You make it out of this, kiddo, and I'll split the pot with you. They're paying me three hundred thousand. Tell me you can't use that kind of money."

"_Otvali_," Wren hissed back.

Nate left without another word.

Behind her, Donahue cleared his throat. She spun back, having forgotten that he was still there. His gaze was fixed on her bleeding arm and feet. "You got a first aid kit?"

Wren peered at him curiously. "There's some…bandages and peroxide in the bathroom. Upstairs." She moved to head that way but took a limping step and hissed in pain.

"Okay, sit down," Donahue directed, pulling out a chair from the bar. "I'll be right back."

* * *

"Did you know?" Wren asked quietly, perching her chin on her knee and watching as Donahue wrapped the last cut on her foot.

"Know what?" he asked, tearing off a length of tape. He fastened it to the gauze and closed his palm around her foot, pressing the tape into place.

"That Gareghty paid Nate to bring me in?"

Donahue shrugged non committal. "Not my job to know," he reasoned.

Wren tilted her head and waited until his dark brown eyes found her blue ones. "What is your job?" she murmured.

"Keep things safe."

"Things like me?" she pressed lightly.

Donahue smiled. "I thought you weren't mine to keep safe." He brushed a wild hank of hair from her face, his fingertips warm and lingering on her neck.

Wren shrugged and closed her eyes. "I don't mind," she murmured.

She felt herself lifted, and Donahue scooped one arm under her knees and wrapped the other around her back, carrying her up the stairs. "I don't think you should go to work."

Wren shook her head slowly. "I don't work tonight. I just told Nate that because…I don't like being bullied."

"I figured as much," Donahue agreed as he moved her into the bedroom. He set her down on the bed. "The cocaine is processing out of your system and the alcohol is catching up. You're probably going to pass out soon."

"Mmm," Wren nodded, knowing the process all too well. "Stay here until I do?"

"Oh-okay," Donahue nodded hesitantly. He sank down on the edge of the bed, facing the door.

Wren wiggled across the bed so that she was curled around him and able to see his profile. "Where are you from?"

Ryan snorted and looked at her. "Boston," he replied with a grin.

She rolled her eyes. "Where are you _really_ from?"

"Seattle."

"Were you a fisherman?" she giggled.

Ryan laughed out loud. "I wish."

Wren wrinkled her nose. "My grandfather was a fisherman in Russia. It's a shitty way of life."

"Is that how you know Russian?"

Wren nodded. "Nate and I speak it – Chris, my older brother? He doesn't. So it was like my and Nate's secret language." She frowned. "Kept us out of a few jams in the past."

"I can imagine it comes in handy," Ryan pointed out.

"Do you speak another language?"

"Does Pig Latin count?"

Wren reached out and smacked his thigh. "M'serious, Ryan" she muttered, closing her eyes.

He paused, playing her voice saying his name over and over. She'd only ever called him 'Donahue' before. "Uh, well…let's see…_ti penso sempre_," he began.

Wren snorted. "Italian? No wonder Gareghty was so hot to hire you." She smiled sleepily, her eyes still closed. "Say something else?"

Ryan hesitated. "Do you know Italian?"

"Nope," Wren sighed. "But I like the sound of it."

"_Mi mancano i tuoi occhi._" He reached and clicked the lamp off, and the room fell into darkness save for the light coming in the balcony from the street.

"One more," Wren whispered.

"_Quando il buio della sera maschera il mio viso, solo allora potrei dirti certe cose_."

* * *

"_Wren_ did this?"

Pam paused where she was cleaning the cut in Connor's forehead and gaped at him. She shook her head in disbelief and continued to stare at Connor.

The Irishman shrugged. "Aye. That's what cocaine will do to ya. Well, one of tha tings."

Pam shook her head and set the alcohol-soaked cotton down. "I'm sorry, did you say 'cocaine'?" She rubbed her palms along her thighs.

Connor nodded and picked up the cotton, turning around to the mirror behind him. "My guess is she's been stuffin' her nose wit' it since Murph stormed out two days ago." He winced and swore and Pam swatted his hand aside, taking the cotton once more.

"Sit _down_," she scolded. She dabbed at the cut again. "You told Murphy, right?"

When Connor didn't answer, the pressure increased on his cut as Pam's agitation grew. "Oi! Ease the fuck off, lass," Connor growled, trying to duck away.

"Jesus fucking Christ," she huffed, throwing the cotton in Connor's face.

"Lord's na…"

"Oh, shut _up_!" Pam yelled. She turned and stormed from the bathroom.

"Pamela!" Connor called, pausing to make sure he wouldn't bleed out all over the floor as he went after her. "Shit…" he grabbed a butterfly bandage and hastily applied it. "Pam!" he called out again. He left the bathroom and found her pacing in her living room.

"Why haven't you told Murphy?" Pam hissed. "You _know_ how he feels about her, even if he can't come out and say it! Why would you keep something like this from him?"

"Is'not the easiest ting ta tell yer brudder dat his girl is a coked up, gun wielding nutcase!"

"She has a _gun_?"

"Pam, there's more ta this than ya know…"

She threw her hands up, exasperated. "Then _tell_ me! I'm in the dark here, Connor!"

So Connor began talking. He told her as much as he could – about Wren's dislike of her brother and how his arrival had made her uncomfortable, about Murphy finding cocaine and the gun in her drawer, and finally, about that morning and the confrontation in Wren's loft.

Pam listened with wide eyes, not speaking and just letting Connor talk and talk. Finally, when he was finished, he leaned back into her couch and lit a cigarette. He closed his eyes, a frown marred his face, and he smoked as Pam processed.

He felt the couch shift and then the jangle of keys and the zipper of a jacket. Connor cracked an eye open and watched as Pam prepared to leave. "Where are ya goin'?"

"I'm going to check on Wren."

Connor shot from the couch. "The hell y'are," he snapped back. He clutched her wrist as she turned to the door.

"Well, it's obvious that you and Murphy aren't welcome. She needs somebody there, Connor…"

"So let her brother take care of her!" Connor suddenly roared.

Pam startled at his voice and pried her hand out of his hold. "What if it was me? Wouldn't you want someone I knew and _trusted_ to take care of me?"

"She's raging on cocaine and there's at least one gun at her disposal, Pam! It's not the safest place in town, ya know."

"I'm just going to talk."

"Ya think I went over there ta get shot at?" He shook his head at Pam once more. "No. Yer not goin'." He pulled his jacket from where it hung on the back of a kitchen chair and slipped it on. "M'goin' ta find Murph. He's probably down at Doc's."

"And what am I supposed to do?" Pam snapped.

"Ya stay here," Connor said gruffly. He pointed at her emphatically as he spoke his next words. "An' ya don't get it in yer head dat you can talk any sense into Wren. Girl's clearly a wrecking ball."

"Ya can't keep an eye on me twenty-four seven."

"I'll not argue about dis wit' ya, lass," Connor groused, opening the door. He heard Pam heave an exasperated sigh. Turning, he watched his girl gather her keys and coat, and slip on her shoes. "I told ya I don't want ya goin' over dere."

"I'm goin wit' ya ta Doc's," Pam explained. "Someone has to have a level head, Connor, and I know it won't be tha two of ya." She gestured to the open door. "Lead day way."

* * *

_A Russian Translation:_

_Otvali: _Piss off / Fuck off

_Some Italian Translations:_

_Ti penso sempre:_ I'm always thinking about you

_Mi mancano i tuoi occhi_: I miss your eyes

_Quando il buio della sera maschera il mio viso solo allora potrei dirti certe cose_: When the dark of the evening obscures my face, only then can I tell you certain things


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Yes, DeDe324, here is that line for you! Congrats to you and pitbullsrok for answering correctly on the Star Wars quote challenge from last chapter. I don't do it often, but it makes me step outside the zone for a moment and concentrate on something else for a while! I'll probably have another challenge in here over the next few chapters so be sure to check the A/N to see if there is one. For those of you that didn't answer, I'll send some Flandus love your way regardless. I better make a disclaimer right now as I haven't done it in a while...I own everything you DON'T recognize, but if Troy Duffy asks, I haven't seen Murphy (in my shower) or Connor (in my study). _

_I was actually surprised how well recieved the character of Ryan Donahue was...thought I'd get a lot more haters about messing with Murphen. The only way you're gonig to find out what happens is if you stick with this...anyway, these next few chapters were a bit of a dog's dinner for a while...I really struggled with some of this, trying to figure out how to pull back on the angst, still make it believeable, and not doom Murphen in the middle of my story. Hope you like._

* * *

"Let me see if I got this right," Rocco exhaled, smoke going with it. He tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette and gave Murphy a serious face. "Wren has a gun. In her underwear drawer."

"Aye," Murphy mumbled, lighting the cigarette clamped in his teeth.

"Wren," he repeated. "Like, little Wren, about yay high," and he held his hand up to the five foot six mark.

"Yay high," Murphy corrected, raising Rocco's hand an inch more.

"She has a gun in her underwear drawer."

Murphy made a face and shrugged again, his hands spread in a gesture of defeat.

"Shit, Murphy, I don't know what to tell you. I mean, all Donna has in her underwear drawer is a pile of granny panties and purple vibrator named 'Aldous'."

"Roc," Murph groaned with a scowl. "I don't need ta know that!"

"Hey, I'm just trying to point out that I would be just as surprised to find a gun in Donna's underwear drawer." Rocco rubbed his chin. "Did you ask her what it was for?"

Here, Murphy hefted a broad shoulder. "I got distracted by the cocaine."

Rocco spit out the mouthful of beer he had just taken. "Cocaine?" He wiped the excess beer foam from his beard.

"Yep," Murphy nodded, blowing a sharp smoke ring.

"Shit, you think you know someone," Rocco mumbled. "So…you broke up with her," he concluded.

Murphy paused and rubbed his chin. _Had_ he broken things off with her? He'd stormed out, royally pissed that she would keep something like that from him, and they'd tossed a few heated phrases back and forth, but nothing to the extent of 'it's over', or 'I never want to see you again.' Not knowing how to answer that, he shrugged again and glanced at Rocco.

"You were there, right?" Rocco tightly chuckled. "I mean, for someone who was there firsthand, you seem to be awfully vague on the details."

With that, Murphy groaned and let his head fall to the bar, scrubbing the back of his head with one hand and waving for another beer with the other. The whole situation had been gnawing at him for the last two days. "Can we talk about somethin' else?" he whined.

"Depends. What are we talkin' about?"

Murphy lifted his head and squinted at Connor, and Pam just behind him. "What do you think?" he grumbled.

Connor glanced at Doc and ordered a couple of beers. "Let's grab a table, aye? "V'got somethin' ta tell ya."

* * *

When Connor had finished giving a rather broken version of his altercation with Wren, Murphy stared at his brother for a long, silent moment. "Fuck me," he finally breathed, rubbing a hand over his face. He felt completely out of sorts.

"Murphy," Pam cut in. "What did she say to you that morning?"

"Hmm?" He glanced at Pam, having momentarily forgotten that she was there.

"When you asked her about the gun. Did she tell you why she had it?"

"Said it was fer protection. Dat 'Boston isn't exactly da safest city'."

"So how did you go from that to fighting?"

Murphy narrowed his eyes sharply at the brunette. "Because there were three rounds left in tha clip, Pam," he snarked, making her lean back. "An were ya absent when Conn mentioned the fact she was cranked on cocaine? I found it in her drawer with da gun. Said the drugs weren't hers." He made a face. "Guess that was a lie, too."

"She didn't explain further?"

"What tha feck does it matter?" Murphy barked. "She was feckin' lyin'."

"You don't know that," Pam pointed out.

Connor snorted beside her. "Trust me, if she was lyin', Murph would know."

Pam glared at them both. "Sounds like neither of you really know _anything_. You snoop through her drawer…"

"She told me ta check for me unders in dere," Murphy cut in with his cigarette pointed in her direction.

"And find something you didn't want to," Pam pressed on, ignoring Murphy's comment. "So when you do ask her about it and she tells you, you call her a liar because you, what, got a 'feeling'?"

Murphy made a disgusted noise and waved off Pam's heated words. "S'not like ya'd understand."

"I understand that you're a jerk for flying off of the handle like that."

Connor and Rocco watched the back and forth like a tennis match, remaining silent.

"Feck you," Murphy snapped. "Are ya all of a sudden defendin' her?" He gestured to his brother's bruised and cut forehead. "Looks plenty real ta me."

"That," Pam growled, "is from the drugs. It's obvious she wasn't in the best state of mind. And yes, I am defending her! _Someone_ has to defend her and if the man who loves her isn't going to do it, I will!" Pam roared.

Silence crept through the bar and more than a few heads turned to the back booth where the quartet sat. Murphy sniffed and stabbed his cigarette out. "What are ya on about," he asked lowly.

"All right," Pam announced, standing from the booth. "Clearly, you are in denial," she proclaimed, glaring at Murphy. She glanced to Connor. "And you're too stubborn to care," she added. "I'm leaving. You guys figure it out." She stormed out of the bar, leaving the twins and Rocco to gape after her.

"What the _fuck_ was that about?" Rocco finally hissed. He turned back to the brothers. "Did I miss something?"

"Let's look at tha facts, den," Connor decided, blocking out Rocco's comment. "She's got a gun," he started.

"Ooh, and cocaine," Rocco added with a grin.

"Aye, tanks, Roc," Connor mumbled.

"She speaks Russian."

Connor and Rocco paused and stared at Murphy.

"What?" they both crowed.

"At least…m'pretty sure she does." He shook his head to clear it. "Okay, start at tha beginin'. She started actin' weird about a month ago. Dat's when her brudder showed up. She woke up one night and took call…" he paused and rubbed his tired eyes. "At least, I think she did…I thought it was a dream. She was speaking Russian on the phone."

"In your dream," Rocco prompted.

"I don't feckin' know, all right?" Murphy snapped. He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts once more. "She cooked the next morning."

"Thought she didn't cook," Connor pointed out.

"Aye, well, that makes two of us. Puts together a pretty sound omelette, though."

"What did she say? On the phone?" Connor asked.

Murphy thought about it for a moment. "Something like, '_I'm done with that shit. That's not me anymore._'" He frowned as he combed through his memories again. "I saw her at Grayson's that night, ya know? Tommy Callahan was in the bar…" he trailed off. "Shit," he muttered sharply.

"Murph?" Connor asked cautiously. His twin looked like he wanted to throw up.

"Oh, feck _me_," Murphy lamented.

"Ya gonna tell me what the feck you're on about or…"

Murphy sat up straight, his previously blurry gaze brightened and hard. "That was her brother," he growled.

"What?"

"That night…that night when Tommy Callahan was in tha bar, dat was her brudder wit' 'im. I _knew_ he looked to familiar," Murphy concluded.

Connor shook his head. "So if her brudder was wit' Tommy Callahan…" he trailed off.

"An' Callahan is a knuckler for Mickey Monaghan," Murphy continued.

They both looked at Rocco who was currently casting his glance from one brother to the other. He finally shrugged and sucked the rest of his beer back. "Maybe she's workin' for the Black Irish?"

"No way," Connor shook his head emphatically. "No _feckin'_ way."

"Aye, my words exactly," Murphy agreed. "If she's workin' for tha Irish, as ya say, why the hell the need ta speak _Russian_?"

Rocco shrugged. "Well," he breathed, "she's not involved with the Russians in the sense that she's working for them. If she was, I'd know."

"You wouldn't feckin' know if yer arse was on fire," Murphy snapped.

"Hey, fuck you, MacManus. You asked. I'm just telling you what I know. She's not involved with the Russians." He thought a little further and then shrugged. "Pretty girl like her, bartending in that district? Getting late night calls from a brother who's keeping company with Tommy Callahan?" He shook his head gravely. "She's in with the Irish."

Muprhy made a dismissive noise and waved his hand. "There's no feckin' way," he repeated.

"You sure about that? Look," Rocco sighed. "I ain't never heard of her before Murphy here started datin' her. A name like hers isn't likely to go unnoticed."

"Unless it's an alias," Connor pointed out.

"Oh, perfect," Murphy fumed. "Ye get a good Irish lass an I get a she-devil that lies about her name and is probably workin' for the Black Irish."

"We don't know that for sure," Connor reminded him.

"Well, it makes the most sense," Murphy snapped.

"What are you so upset about? You'd think that being Irish you'd be happy about it," Rocco pointed out.

"Monaghan works for Gareghty – that wannabe Irish fuck-stick is a _butcher_, Roc," Connor lamented.

"An' she's been lyin' te me this whole feckin' time," Murphy sneered.

Rocco shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette. "Chicks lie." He looked to Connor. "You think your leggy Irish lass is telling you everything?" He chuckled and shook his head. "Shit, you two are more hopeless than I am." He stood from the booth. "I gotta go. Early meeting with Papa Joe in the morning. Catch you boys on the flip side."


	15. Chapter 15

Pam hadn't been lying when she told Connor she didn't go to Mass on St. Patty's Day. Still, she woke up early, intent on making it over to Wren's before her shift at _Aces High_. The heated argument between herself and the twins was fresh in her mind and she hadn't really slept well. This was the first argument she'd had with Connor, but she felt it valid.

Half an hour ago, she'd left her apartment based on principle. Wren was her friend. She was Murphy's girlfriend, and so that had to mean something to Connor, too. Pam had dealt with a few 'tweakends' her younger brother Jack had been on, but she didn't remember him ever getting really messed up on anything more than mushrooms. Still, Wren didn't deserve to be alone, no matter how much she had protested. Pam took a deep breath and moved to cross the street. Her steps slowed once more as she saw a black town car pull up in front of the building. The windows were tinted out. That kind of car wasn't a Sunday car. That kind of car usually meant business. She stepped back into the shade of a nearby awning and watched as the front door of Wren's loft building opened up.

Wren stepped into the sunshine, looking like nothing was out of the ordinary. Of course, Pam was still a ways away, but from the way the petite blonde moved and laughed at something the dark-haired man next to her said, she guessed that Wren was feeling moderately human again. Wren waited as the man opened the car door for her, and she slipped inside with him following. The car took off up the street and turned down Flannagan Avenue, heading into downtown.

* * *

Wren stared out the window of Gareghty's town car, watching as the buildings whipped past. She remembered snippets of the previous day's activities, but nothing was for certain other than the memory of her fight with Murphy, and his subsequent leaving. It gnawed at her, and the fact she couldn't remember much else was heavy on her heart. She did know that Connor had shown up at some time over the past two days. Clearly, something physical had happened, what with the telltale debris all over the kitchen and living room floors. She'd had to pick up the MK23 from the kitchen floor in order to sweep up and make coffee. At least that explained the disintegrated cupboard door and the pile of shattered glass and ceramic. It also explained why she shuffled with a slight limp when she got up that morning.

She was a little more hazy as to why Ryan Donahue was sleeping on her couch. He'd discarded his expensive suit, hanging it over the back of a chair, and cocooned under a blanket in his boxer briefs, undershirt, and socks. He'd woken to her standing over him with a curious grin on her face and a cup of coffee in her hand.

"What happened?" she'd asked when he sat up and gratefully accepted the offered beverage.

"You decided to redecorate," Donahue quipped before taking a gulp of coffee. "It's Saint Patty's day today," he announced.

Wren rolled her eyes and moved off to the kitchen again. "Is that all you Irish guys think about? When it's time to drink again?"

His dark gaze followed her as she headed for the kitchen. She'd showered and changed, although the snug tank top and underwear combination could hardly be considered clothing. "I think you Russians can hold your own," Donahue shrugged. He grinned when Wren shot him a look over his shoulder.

"I don't know any Irishmen who speak Italian that well," Wren continued, fiddling with a piece of broken coffee mug.

"One quarter Italian," Donahue teased. "But Irish enough for Gareghty." He stood, setting his coffee aside and folding the blanket. He reached for his pants, stepping into them as Wren turned around again.

Whatever she was going to say died on her lips. Donahue was in top condition, the Italian background evident in his olive colored skin. He was compactly muscled, stark lines in his arms and shoulders as he moved. He zipped his fly and picked his head up, finding Wren watching him. "What?" he murmured.

She closed her eyes and turned her head away with a nervous chuckle. "Uh…" she tapped her fingertips on the counter. "I don't cook. So if you were hoping for breakfast to go with your coffee, you're shit out of luck."

"Gareghty has brunch after his St. Patty's day Mass. He's got a room at the Prudential. Come on, they have an entire room dedicated to desserts."

"I _really_ don't feel like dealing with Gareghty today. After last night…" she shook her head again.

"Yeah, well, that _is_ my job. Other than keeping things safe? Keeping things in order." His gently flirtatious manner melted as his suit jacket slipped over his shoulders. "Get dressed. Car will be here in fifteen minutes."

So, there she was, speeding along to the Prudential while Donahue sat next to her, his cell phone to his ear as he spoke softly. A few seconds later, he ended the call and looked at Wren.

"Callahan has a fight on Saturday night."

Her eyebrows drew together in confusion.

Donahue chuckled. "Shit, didn't you know Tommy was a bare-knuckle boxer in the circuit?"

"I didn't know there was a 'circuit', let alone a bare-knuckle one. I mean, I know he's a knuckler, Murphy…told me…" she trailed off. She swallowed and nodded at Donahue. "So he's got a fight?"

Donahue didn't miss the way she skipped around Murphy's name, but he didn't say anything. It wasn't his business. At least, he knew it wasn't supposed to be his business, but he was having a hard time making that distinction as of late. "Yeah. He's fighting Gin Reynolds."

Wren laughed out loud. "Gin? And I thought my parents were assholes."

Donahue shook his head. "It isn't his _given_ name. His first name is Richard. Well, Rickey, actually."

"Gin Rickey Reynolds?" Wren groaned.

"As a bartender, I assume you find that amusing."

"No, as a normal person, I find that amusing. As a bartender, I find it horribly cliché." The shared a laugh for a moment. "I didn't think Tommy was actually…" she made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "I mean…he's a wiry little fucker, isn't he?"

"That's why they call him 'The Natural'," Donahue pointed out.

"Of course," Wren deadpanned.

"A lot of big names show up at these fights. Gareghty is fairly certain that Giovanni Agosti will be there. He's flown in from Genoa to meet with Papa Joe Yakavetta."

"So, it's another job," Wren reasoned.

Donahue nodded. "Yeah."

"That's a fairly public venue to make a hit," Wren pointed out.

Donahue shook his head. "We'll go over logistics at brunch."

It was Wren's turn to nod silently, and she looked back out the window.

"Murphy found your gun, didn't he?"

Wren nodded again, but refused to look at Donahue.

"And the cocaine?"

She didn't move a muscle.

"You fought?"

Finally, she cut her gaze to him. "Fuck, Donahue, why are you so interested in my personal life?"

"Because I have to know if your head is still in the game," Donahue answered succinctly. "Is he a distraction?"

"You gonna patch things up between us?" Wren snickered. "Maybe…write a sappy note and stick it in his locker after school?"

"Don't be glib," Donahue snapped. He hated when she put up her guard. It happened more often than not, and he supposed it was a defence mechanism born of the lifestyle she'd often had to lead.

"Don't be an asshole," Wren replied. "And I'm fine," she lied, referring to Murphy. "All clear on that front. He won't be coming back any time soon."

* * *

"I do believe the Monsignor's finally got the point," Connor stated as he paused on the church steps.

Beside him, Murphy shrugged, dragging off of his cigarette. "Aye."

They headed off to work, walking together in silence. Connor finally broke it once more, as they paused on the LongfellowBridge and surveyed the river. "When are ya gonna ask her about it?" He fished two cigarettes out of his pocket and lit them, handing one to Murphy.

Murphy gave his brother a strained look, but took the cigarette and smoked for a minute. "Don't know," he shrugged. "I mean… 'ow do ya start _that_ conversation? Oh, by the by, I know you were lying ta me because ya work for the Black Irish?" Murphy shook his head. "We don't even know that, for certain."

"Well, someone has ta talk to her, don't ya think? I'm not goin', last time I did, she pulled a gun on me."

"Yeah, well, there have been times, Conn…" Murphy trailed off, trying to lighten the mood. It didn't last long. He frowned again and threw out an aggravated sigh. "Pam's right, ya know."

"What's that now?" Connor asked, eyebrow arched in interest.

"Dat I love 'er. I do, Conn. I'm fuckin' knee deep in it wit' 'er. Dis is killin' me."

"You guys have some serious talkin' ta do, then," Connor pointed out. "Gotta lay this all out on tha table. M'not goin' trew _dat_ again, an' I'll be dead a thousand years b'fore _you_ do."

"Aye," Murphy agreed. He gnawed on his thumbnail for a moment. "She's workin' t'night," he said out loud. "I'll have ta talk ta her in tha mornin'." He pushed back from the railing on the bridge and elbowed Connor. "C'mon. I wanna get through tha day and then get absolutely sloshed t'night."

Connor grinned. "I'm wit ya, brudder."

* * *

Wren had grown bored of the conversation around Gareghty's gathered men by the time brunch was served. She'd been in the room for fifteen minutes, sticking close to Donahue and refusing to acknowledge Nate's presence. Only when Gareghty actually made an appearance did she look up from her coffee, and that was to shoot him a dark glare.

He smirked, and moved through the room, unwilling to let Wren's dark mood bring him down. "Gentlemen, thanks for coming. Please," he continued, sweeping his hand towards the food that had been set out along a link of four tables. "Help yourself. Might I recommend the omelette station? Made to order." He grinned and picked up a plate, and started filling it.

At the mention of 'omelette', Wren's fingers tightened on the handle of the coffee cup. She thought back to the morning after Nate had arrived, the morning after his impromptu phone call. She had been upset enough to actually cook. Donahue gently elbowed her, gaining her attention, and he nodded at the table. "You want something?" He stood smoothly.

She shrugged and glanced around the room. Soon enough, Donahue returned, sinking back onto the couch next to Wren. He held his plate out for her and she picked up a strawberry, nibbling absently on it while Gareghty arranged himself on an arm chair.

"Giovanni Agosti arrives on Thursday night," Gareghty began, and the milling voices in the room fell silent. "He's in town for a meeting with Yakavetta, but I have it on good authority that he will be at Tommy's fight."

A murmur broke through the assembled men, speaking in hushed tones and congratulating Tommy on his upcoming bout. Gareghty raised a hand, and the noise died down once more. "Giovanni Agosti will not be returning to Genoa." He swung his green eyes to Wren. "Our little bird here is going to take him out. Here's the plan."

* * *

"I really don't think you should be working tonight," Donahue pointed out as the car slowed at Wren's building. He turned towards her, eyebrow raised questioningly.

"It's St. Patty's day," Wren shrugged. "Most lucrative night for bartenders. Girl's gotta make a living somehow." She reached for the door handle.

Donahue's hand stopped her. "How do you do it?"

She shook her head, confused. "Do _what_?"

He shrugged. "Go from…from that woman in the purple dress at the restaurant, hell bent on pissing off the head of the Black Irish, to this…_girl_ who slings beers to the masses and claims the tips are good."

Wren's eyebrows rose in surprise at his accurate observation. "Same way you go from a high-class, well dressed man to a hard-assed head of security. We all have different roles to play, Donahue. You learn early on how to differentiate."

"Who taught you to shoot a gun?"

"Oh, no," Wren chuckled. "I'm not for back seat confessions, even if they have nothing to do with love." She grinned. "I'll tell you someday. Just not today. I don't have enough time." She opened the door. "Have fun tonight, getting up to no good. I know that's what you Irish boys do."

"Come to the Black Rose later," Donahue suggested. "Have a drink."

Wren shook her head. "I'll never get a cab over at that time of night," she reasoned.

"I'll send the car."

She stepped out of the car and onto the curb. "See ya later, Donahue." She shut the door and turned to her building. She heard the whir of the window rolling down and Donahue called to her out the open window.

"Is that a yes?"

"No," Wren groused with a smile over her shoulder. She turned back and headed inside, sighing heavily as the door shut behind her.

She broke down in the elevator. Usually it was the elevator breaking down on her. It started with an ache in the back of her throat, one that threatened tears and made her bite the sides of her tongue to keep them at bay. By the fourth floor, they'd started to fall silently and the arrival at the fifth floor found her grinding the heels of her hands into her eyes in a desperate attempt to stop the sudden barrage of emotion.

"Fuck," she half-hissed, half-sobbed. She tore into her bag and snagged her keys, stabbing them into the lock. She sniffed, wiping at her eyes again, and managed to get inside of her loft. She stood in the entrance and looked around. It was a war zone. Other than the spot she'd cleaned to make coffee that morning, the rest of the loft was torn apart. She swore again when she noticed the shattered light and cupboard, lamenting a lost damage deposit. She needed to deal with this. Needed to get things back in order.

Her memories were starting to resurface. Thanks to Connor, she was out of coke, not that it mattered. She needed to be clean now. The job on Saturday was high stakes, she couldn't risk fucking it up. Work was in four hours and so she spent two of them cleaning. Surfaces reappeared and gleamed as they had before, the carpet and couch thoroughly vacuumed. She'd removed the remnants of the cupboard door and decided that the open concept wasn't that bad. She removed the rest of the cupboard doors, at least the over head ones, as well. She should have asked Donahue to take the guns. The MK23 stared at her and she remembered brandishing it in Connor's face, waving it close to her temple, and finally firing it. She winced at the memory of his alarmed face.

Her cheeks burned hotly with embarrassment as she remembered kissing him, too. It might have been to distract him at the time, but now it was doing the same thing to her as she turned on the taps to the shower. She'd asked him not to tell Murphy…about _any_ of it. By the time she'd rinsed her hair, a headache was settling in.

After drying her hair and dressing (purposefully avoiding anything green), she found a bottle of gin tucked into a dark corner of the cupboard next to the fridge, and managed to rummage up a can of tonic water. The alcohol began to do its trick, loosening stiff muscles and making the headache fade. Now all she had to do was get through the evening.

She fitting earrings into place, and then her bracelet, and then her fingers closed over the long silver chain and pendant that she'd worn religiously since Murphy had given it to her. When had she taken it off? She held it up, watching as it twirled.

_Doesn't have ta mean anything'_, Murphy had said.

So why did it weigh so heavy against her heart when she'd settled it around her neck?


	16. Chapter 16

"Goin' out tonight, Pam?" Cynthia poked her head into Pam's cubicle and watched as the brunette tidied up her work space.

"Not sure," Pam muttered in reply.

Cynthia frowned and moved to sit on a stool just inside the doorway. "Not sure?" she echoed incredulously. "You have an exceptionally _Irish_ boy-toy and you're telling me you're not sure if you're going out for St. Patty's day?" She looked Pam up and down. "Aren't _you_ Irish?"

Pam shot her mentor a wry grin and reached to shut off her radio. "What's you're point?"

"Did you guys have a fight?"

"Actually," Pam sighed, "his brother and I did. And he didn't bother stepping in to do anything about it."

Cynthia cringed. "Ouch."

Pam snorted and stacked her ink back into its case. "Yeah, well, I should have known. I mean, with brothers like that…why would they need anyone else but each other?" She slammed the lid shut and her shoulders slumped. She loved Connor, and in truth, she loved Murphy, too, but sometimes, when the two of them were together, they were of one brain, one mouth, and one motivation. It drove her nuts.

"Well, Ray and I are going out later…probably head down to The Duck and Dog for a few pints. You're welcome to join us."

Pam smiled at Cynthia. "Thanks, Cyn…I'm probably just going to pick up a bottle of wine and watch a movie. Just found a copy of 'Naked Under Leather' the other day."

"Sexy film. You might want to make up with Connor _before_ you watch that." Cynthia stood from the stool and winked at Pam. "All right, I'll let you go. But if you change your mind, that's where we'll be."

"Thanks, Cyn."

"You want me to lock up when I leave?"

"Yeah," Pam nodded. "Thanks. I don't think I'll be too much longer." She watched Cynthia leave and then turned back to her desk, taking in the scattered books and half-finished sketches. A few seconds later, she heard the beaded curtain that separated her cubicle from the shop rustle, and she smiled.

"What did you forget, Cyn?"

"Hey, Pam."

She spun around and found Murphy standing before her. She was genuinely surprised and, despite her annoyance with him as of late, she smiled. "What are you doing here?"

"Pam?" Cynthia called from the front. "You okay if I leave you two alone?"

"Yeah, it's fine, Cyn. Good night." She waited until the shop door closed and she turned back to Murphy, waiting for an answer.

"Connor was goin' ta come by but he's currently icing his balls."

Pam stared at the darker twin for a moment. "Do I want to know?"

Murphy chuckled and scratched his jaw. "He got his arse kicked by a girl." He paused and frowned. "Again."

Pam gave her own chuckled and shook her head. "What did he do this time?"

"He told the lightbulb joke to tha wrong lass…at least, we _think_ it was a lass. 'Ard ta say. She was taller than _me_."

"She kicked him in the _balls_?"

Murphy nodded gravely. "Aye. Bad enough that he has ta ice dem. So he asked me ta come get ya – ya are still comin' t'night, aren't ya?"

Pam paused as she gathered her purse and shuffled the pile of drawings on her desk into some semblance of order. "I don't know, Murph."

"If it's about last night, m'sorry, aye? I didna mean ta be such a prick, but ya hafta understand. Dat's tha last I expected to hear about Wren." He swallowed after her name, missing the syllable on his tongue.

"Murph…"

"An' you were right. You _are_ right. I do love 'er. I'll do anytin' ta make sure she's safe at dis point." He looked at her closely. "Was kinda hopin' we might stop by Grayson's on tha way. I want ta talk ta her."

Pam checked her watch, noting it was just past six. "Okay," she relented. "I think we were all a little wound up last night. Said things a little harsher than we should have." She ushered Murphy out of the tattoo shop and locked the door behind them. "I want to go home and change. It won't take me long – then we'll head over to Grayson's on the way back to your place."

* * *

"Did anybody else go to work today, or was it just us?"

Wren laughed at Bryant's growl and looked out on to the gathering crowd in the bar. "It's Saint Patty's day. Isn't that, like, a civic holiday in this town?"

"More like an excuse to get hammered on a Wednesday," Bryant replied. "What time is it?"

"Five," Wren sighed. "And we're in for the long haul, too. Mandy and Cody both called in sick so we're down to one server."

Bryant thought about it for a moment and then widened his eyes in horror. "Don't tell me…"

"Yep," Wren nodded. "The only one left is…"

"Hey! Oh my _god_, I'm so super excited to be working with you two!" A loud, feminine voice pitched through the bar, bringing attention from more than a few tables.

"Charlie," Wren and Bryant groaned in unison. They both turned to watch the petite redhead (who was usually a brunette) sashay behind the bar (a no-no in Wren's book; behind the bar was for _bartenders_, not lounge servers) and spin in her micro plaid kilt. "How do I look?" she squeaked.

Wren narrowed her eyes at the bobbing glittery shamrock antennae headband Charlie wore and the green beaded necklace that was attached to a shot glass. Her T shirt read 'Kiss me, I'm Irish (at least for the day)!', and she wore knee high green athletic socks.

"_Well_?" Charlie prompted.

"Good," Bryant forced.

"Like someone is after your Lucky Charms," Wren growled at the same time.

Charlie's smile faltered for a second, but then she waved Wren's reply off. "Oh, you're always giving me a hard time," she chuckled. "Oh! I almost forgot," she sang, digging into her apron. She produced a handful of small, clear plastic bottles with green lids that looked suspiciously like: "Green food coloring! You know, for the beer!"

"Yay," Bryant cheered flatly.

Wren was silent as she watched Charlie place the dye next to the taps. "Okay," she breathed, shooing Charlie out from behind the bar. "Thanks, so glad you remembered. Can you do a round around the floor? I need to change a keg and grab a few more bottles of whiskey." _And have a few shots for myself_, she added silently.

Charlie did an annoying little jig and picked up a tray, expertly twirling it. "Noooo problem! This night is going to be a _blast_!" she gushed before prancing out to her first table.

"At least she knows what she's doing," Bryant pointed out. He cringed when her laughter attacked his ears, however, and Wren snorted at his obvious discomfort.

"Want me to see if I can find you some ear plugs while I'm back there?"

Bryant grinned. "Don't come back, Wren. You can make it, save yourself!"

Wren chuckled. "Be back in a few."

* * *

"It's pretty busy in there," Pam muttered, glancing in one of the windows at _Grayson's_, taking in the gathering crowd. By now, it was close to eight and the St Patty's revellers were in full swing. Murphy turned and said something to her, but it was drowned out by a gaggle of screeching girls dressed in way too much green. Pam frowned. "What?"

"I said I can see her, but she's getting' her arse handed to 'er." He looked up the street and back to Pam who was straightening the hem of her dress. "Ya look fine, stop fidgetin'," he added with a smirk.

"Thanks," she breathed. "Okay, so what do you want to do?"

Murphy rubbed his lips and shrugged. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I don't recall ever having ta have such a difficult conversation wit' a girl."

She glanced into the window again and spoke. "Well, I don't suggest layin' yer heart at her feet while she's workin'. It will most likely piss her off. Maybe you can talk after she's done?" She glanced at Murphy who was still staring through the glass. "Do you want me to go in?" she suggested.

"I'm not a pussy," Murphy snarked.

"Yeah…but I'm neutral. I haven't seen her during any of this. She's less likely to get wound up. You've called her a liar and Connor's seen her hit rock bottom. Can't see her being too friend to either of ya right off the bat. I don't mind," she shrugged. "I'll go test the waters. If it's weird, I'll bail. It's no problem."

"Aye," Murphy finally caved. "But ya come straight ta Doc's after, got it? Conn's already gonna have me head when he finds out ya went in there."

"You leave him to me, okay?" She leaned and gave him a quick peck on the lips. "Go. Be Irish. Drink many beers. It will be okay, I promise." She shoved him away and waved him up the street. "Go."


	17. Chapter 17

Charlie sighed and stared at the pitcher of golden lager that Wren had just set up. She watched as Wren wiped at her brow and then pulled up rocks glasses, lining them up, and began filling them with ice and various liquors.

"Um," Charlie began, her green painted nails tapping the side of the pitcher.

Wren pretended not to notice the waitress's obvious displeasure and instead concentrated on the list of cocktails she was working on.

"_Ahem_," Charlie tried again, clearing her throat rather loudly.

"What," Wren growled, not looking up from her order.

Charlie's nails tapped the side of the pitcher again. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"I'm kinda busy here, Charlie. Not a lot of time to play twenty questions. Your order said a pitcher of Harp. I suggest you get it out there before people start getting rowdy." She winced at a roar of laughter and cheering that swept through the bar. "Rowdier," she corrected, shovelling a load of rye and coke out onto a tray and picking it up.

"It's supposed to be green," Charlie snarked.

"It's perfectly fine as it is," Wren countered.

"I'm not serving it until it's green."

Wren stepped out from behind the bar and narrowed her eyes at Charlie. "Then you're going to be waiting a very long time. I've got better things to do than dye beer green. It's a fucking crime, Charlie. I won't do it."

"Fine," Charlie snapped, grabbing the pitcher hard enough to slosh beer up the sides. She spun on her heel and worked her way across the lounge.

Wren rolled her eyes and moved to the table that had ordered the rye and coke. She had just set her last one down when Nate waltzed in, Callahan naturally in tow.

"What's the matter, Nate, not Irish enough to hang with the boyos?" She shoved passed him and Callahan, and stalked back behind the bar while Nate clambered up on to a stool at the far end.

She let Bryant serve him a beer while she worked on another order when Charlie reappeared with the pitcher of lager she had just taken out. "They asked for green," she announced with a triumphant grin.

Wren rolled her eyes and opened the bottle of green dye, frowning as it stained her fingers, and dumped half the contents in. "Don't bring it back if they complain about the taste. They want it green, they pay for it." She shoved the pitcher back to Charlie.

"Shit, everybody's Irish tonight," Bryant muttered as he pulled a bottle of vodka from the bar and lined up six shot glasses.

"What's up?" Wren asked, pointedly ignoring her brother's attempt to gain her attention.

"Table full of Russians near the window. Behind the guy desperately trying to get your attention. Want me to tell him to fuck off?"

Wren snorted and finished making a Caesar. "I wish it were that easy," she quipped. "I'll take care of it."

"You've got balls showing up here," Wren hissed as she approached her brother.

"I'm a fuckin' sack-o-matic, sis." He looked around the bar, twisting all over his stool, and then his steely gaze flashed back to Wren. "I'm on the job, as it were. We both are," he added, gesturing to Callahan. He smirked and took a sip of beer. "Those are Russians behind me," he muttered, leaning over the bar towards her.

"I know," Wren mumbled. She could only make out a bit of their conversation. She raised an eyebrow at Nate. "Is that why you're sitting there?"

Nate shrugged, leaning back on his stool. "Maybe. Maybe I'm here to check up on you, to make sure…Fuck me sideways, who is _that_?"

Wren watched Nate's gaze widen and she turned to see what had caught his attention. Pam Leary was sashaying through the bar, dressed in a form-fitting Kelly green dress, three inch heels, and a cropped jean jacket. She spotted Wren and waved, and hopped up onto a stool at the bar.

"You _know_ her?" Nate breathed.

Wren stared at Pam in clear confusion. "You could say that." She left her brother wondering and approached Pam, pulling a glass from the cooler and pouring a sleeve of pilsner, setting it in front of the brunette. "Hey, stranger," she began carefully.

"Hey yourself!" she smiled genuinely. She shrugged out of her jacket, catching the attention of the other patrons gathered along the bar. "Thought I'd stop by on my way to meet the boys and see how you were faring." She raised the glass Wren set in front of her and took a long sip, flicking her eyes over Wren's appearance.

Wren's fingers reached for her pendant and toyed with it, swallowing thickly. "I'm okay," she answered slowly. "You?"

Pam shrugged. "Well, my week started out great," she began, lowering her voice. "Until my boyfriend came home roughed up." She cocked a dark eyebrow pointedly.

"Look, Pam…"

Pam set her beer down and raised her hand. "I'm not here to preach. I'm not here to give you shit or lecture you, or anything to that effect. I'm here having a beer, seeing how a friend is doing."

Wren tilted her head, contemplating the two-handed pour she was working on. "Last couple of days were a bust," she answered. "Kinda got into some shit, you know?" She set the finished pints up on the bar and looked up to Pam's gaze. "I'm better now, though. Thanks."

"You sure?" Pam's eyes were serious, her demeanour sympathetic. Her eyes landed on the pendant that Wren had been clutching moments before.

Wren's hand went to it again and she nodded quickly. "Yeah."

"So…you'll come to McGinty's when you're done?"

Wren opened her mouth, her head already shaking in the negative.

"Look, for starters, I can't take a whole evening by myself with Conn _and_ Murph, _and_ Rocco. I'm outnumbered as it is."

Wren peered at Pam. "You _do_ know that Murphy and I had a fight, don't you?"

Pam rolled her eyes. "_Obviously._ He's been a pain the ass for the last few days. Which brings me to my second reason for asking you to come tonight: _talk_ to him."

Wren disappeared behind the counter for a moment and came back with a handful of Budweisers. She lined them up and began flipping the caps off with a bottle opener. "Nothing to talk about."

"That's bullshit and you know it," Pam snapped. "I don't know all the gritty details, and I don't think I want to know. But you owe him an explanation." She finally nodded to the pendant swinging against Wren's chest. "There has to be a reason why you're still wearing that."

Pam's words sank deep and Wren found she didn't have a smart answer to come back with. "I gotta do some work. Stay for another, all right?" She left Pam at the bar and picked up another order on the way, and worked her way through the crowd.

She found herself at the Russian table and recognized one of them from the month before, the one that had made a comment about her understanding Russian. She'd dubbed him Boris at that point, but as she tuned into the conversation, she learned that his name was Ivan.

"We best be quiet," he rumbled to his companions. "This little one knows Russian."

Wren picked up the empty shot glasses, listening to the men laugh and crack obvious jokes, knowing she'd understand. "You guys want another round?"

"_Da_," Ivan nodded. "Bring eight. One for our fallen _komrades_ and one for the pretty bird."

Wren's eyes snapped to his and he grinned. Her heart stuttered as she nodded, and when she turned from the table, she noted Nate's slightly tilted head as he listened to the conversation. She moved quickly, sliding behind the bar and pouring shots of vodka. The tray shook as she hauled them back out and delivered them. As she set the last of the eight down, a large hand closed on hers, holding it around the shot glass. She glanced up at Ivan and he watched her closely.

He picked up his glass, and his companions did the same. His hand slipped from hers and he gestured to her to pick up her glass. She lifted it and watched as the group of Russians raised their glasses and a chorus of "_Nastrovia_" erupted around the table.

"_Nastrovia_," Wren replied, and she tipped the glass back, very much aware that Ivan continued to watch her.

His wide, stoic face suddenly cracked and he laughed jovially. Wren steeled herself, refusing to startle. She didn't like the way he was watching her. "When you bring us a round, you bring yourself one, too," Ivan instructed with a smile. "I like you, pretty bird. We drink together."

"We're pretty busy," she began, and she watched as Ivan's face fell a fraction. "But I'll see what I can do." She smiled and collected the empty glasses.

Pam smirked as Wren came back behind the bar. "Are we making nice with the patrons?"

Wren rolled her eyes and moved Pam's empty, and replaced it with a fresh pint. "It's the bartender's curse: having to drink with the customers."

"Yeah, I can see where that's a problem," Pam droned with a chuckle. She glanced back towards Nate and then leaned closer to Wren. "Do you…_know_ that guy at the end of the bar or something?"

"That would be my brother," Wren explained, her eyes trained on the order that had just printed up.

Pam leaned up on her stool and craned her neck. "Really? I can see the family resemblance."

"Looks only," Wren stated tightly.

"He's watching you like a hawk," Pam declared. Then she quickly looked down into her beer. "And now he's leering at me."

Wren shot a warning glare in Nate's direction and he picked up his empty glass, showing it to her. Wrenching open the cooler, she pulled out a fresh glass and put it under the tap. "I'll be back," she muttered to Pam.

"Will you stop fucking staring?" She growled, dropping the beer in front of Nate.

"These _pertsy_ behind me sure seem to like you. Especially the big guy," Nate murmured. "Do they know you speak Russian?"

"Yeah, they were in here the first time you showed up."

"Sounds like they've got a few important meetings this week. Something about a Fat Man and Copely Plaza."

Wren smiled lamely. "Great, why don't you finish your drink and run along and tell Mickey …"

"Hold on," Nate muttered, turning his head in the smallest degree. "There's something going down tonight."

"Hey, Wren, can I get a hand here?" Bryant called out, dumping empty pitchers into the sink and gesturing at the pile of unfinished orders.

"Super, you continue spying. I have a job," Wren groused at Nate.

* * *

"I need another _green_ pitcher of Harp," Charlie announced proudly. She inspected her nails. "Seems like at least _some_ of us are in the spirit." She glanced at Bryant who happened to be wearing a worn Celtics T shirt.

"Hey, this was a total fluke, you know that, Wren," he defended.

"Sure, Bryant, hang me out to dry." Wren shot Charlie a sneer and filled another pitcher of Harp and green food coloring. Her fingertips were embarrassingly green and she frowned at them, rubbing them against her apron. "Here," she said, thrusting the pitcher at Charlie. "Go, pretend to be Irish some more."

"What-_ever_," Charlie huffed. "I'm making fat tips tonight," she added with a haughty grin. She spun the shot-glass necklace, flinging drops of whiskey around. "Maybe if you smiled…"

"I swear to _Christ_, Charlie, if you don't get the fuck out of my face, I'm going to strangle you with that goddamn necklace," Wren growled.

Charlie, for her part, looked torn between crying and throwing down her tray to take a swing at Wren. She thought better of it as Wren stared her down and instead, the redhead muttered a hasty 'Fuck you' and stormed across the bar once more, her skirt flouncing with every step.

"Jesus, Wren, you okay?" Bryant asked cautiously.

"I'm just peachy, Bryant."

"Uh…_right_. Look, you know Charlie, she's annoying at the best of times. It's busy, we're getting slammed back here, and she's not helping the situation. But don't shut down, okay? I can't handle this myself. I need your help."

She watched Bryant nervously scratch his ruddy beard and she sighed with a heavy nod. "Right. Okay."

"Okay. Your table of Russians are requesting you drop off another round."

_Great_, Wren thought. _I can use the alcohol_.

She'd downed four shots by the time Pam stood up to leave, and Wren waved her credit card away, swearing it was no good.

"So… McGinty's?"

Wren sighed and wiped her hands on a bar towel. "Yeah," she breathed. "I guess. I mean, things can't be any worse than they already are."

"I know he wants to talk to you," Pam said confidently.

"Oh, and how do you figure?"

"Because when I saw him this afternoon he said, 'I just want ta talk ta 'er, Pam.'"

"You make it sound so easy," Wren said. "And so authentic," she added with a frown.

"It is," Pam shrugged, referring to both statements.

They agreed to see each other later at McGinty's, and Pam left, much to the male patrons' dismay. Someone plugged quarters into the jukebox and a very un-Irish tune came on, making for groans and complaints.

Nate flagged her down and when she neared him, he stood, dropping a wad of cash. "Gotta go." Callahan was already at the door, keeping one eye trained on the Russians.

Wren cocked an eyebrow. "Something going on?" she asked, flicking her eyes to the Russians and back to Nate.

"You could say that. Don't worry about it, I've got it covered."

"Yeah, I'm sure you do." Wren checked her watch. It was close to ten and she breathed a sigh of relief as Scotty, one of their casual bartenders, slunk behind the bar. She looked back to Nate. "Don't get your head blown off," she chirped in a sickly sweet voice.

"Wow, Wren, if I didn't know you, I'd think you cared or something," Nate chuckled drily. "Have a good night."

He slipped out and Wren looked back to his empty stool and collected his tab.

"Hey, pretty bird," Ivan's voice boomed out.

Wren glanced up hesitantly. "Another round?"

He nodded. "Yes, yes, and you come too, _da_?"

She sighed and moved to pour another round for the Russians.

"Aww, you made friends with the Russians," Scotty joked, quickly clearing through a lengthy order. He noticed her green fingertips and groaned. "Shit, Charlie is working, isn't she?"

"Oh yeah," Bryant piped up. "Wren, why don't you go take a break?"

"All ready heading there." She held up the tray of shots and moved to deliver them.

"_I'll_ take these," Bryant said, shaking his head. He pulled the tray from her hands and nodded to the back hall. "You go do what you do on your breaks.


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Coming up on the movie next chapter...from there, I won't dally too long on the actual BDS movie...most of us know what happens as we've seen the film at least once (or several times, like when we're at home sick and we need some Flandus to make us feel better), but I will try to give a rough synopsis of those scenes we know and love. I will, however, be injecting some scenes that 'could have' happened, ie, they happened whilst the cameras weren't rolling. So, while it may not be AU, there will be things you haven't seen before. _

_I'm trying to stay in character for the most part, but there are some situations that the twins' reactions can be speculated upon because these situations weren't addressed on film. Those that feel Murph and / or Conn wouldn't do, say, think, the things I have them doing, saying, or thinking, great, I'd love to hear about it, but I want you to tell me the reason WHY. I struggled a bit with the realtionship between Murphy and Wren at this point and where it would go. Let's just say that I found the path that suits my needs and my plot._

_The character of Charlie in the last few chapters is based on a bar server I used to work with named, you guessed it, Charlie. Yes, I was a bartender in a former life (and a banker and a barista), and yes, I had a HUGE issue with dying beer green because I always ended up with green fingers for days. That, and it made the beer taste funny and it was just an insult to the Irish (in my opinion)._

_Thanks to those who have stopped by, reviewed, favorited, followed, etc. Your attention to this story is manna from heaven, and is greatly coveted by me. Apologies for gratuitous Russian, but I like the way it looks._

* * *

Normally, she takes her cigarettes in the back with whichever kitchen guy is on break. Tonight, though, she opts for the front and stands under the awning just a ways up from the door, watching as the streets are criss-crossed by dozens of drunken, green-clad people hopping from one bar to another. She's glad they're almost at capacity in her lounge. At this time of night, the patrons in _Grayson's_ are most likely in for the long haul. That means there won't be much table turnover, but there will be drunken tips. She smiles at the prospect.

"How come you don't drink with us?" A booming voice calls out.

Wren pauses mid-drag and glances left, watching as Ivan lumbers through a crowd of young adults. She holds up her cigarette. "I need a break," she answers honestly.

He leers and takes a spot next to her, lighting his own cigarette. "I would like very much to take you out to dinner. Perhaps tomorrow night?"

This was the other half of the bartender's curse: fielding requests for dates and / or other activities from inebriated patrons. Not that Ivan was drunk; he was probably far from it, but it didn't make Wren feel any less uncomfortable.

"Um…sorry. I'm kinda seeing someone," she shrugged. She took another drag from her cigarette.

Ivan snorted. "He is Italian?"

Wren cocked an eyebrow. "What? No, he's not. Why would you ask that?"

"Pretty bird like you, you must be kept woman. You do not date Russians or I would know. You must be with an Italian. Let me tell you something about Italians," Ivan began.

Wren snorted at Ivan's logic and shook her head. "No, he's not Italian. And I'm not a kept woman."

Ivan sneered, his eyes brightening as he caught sight of Wren's necklace. His fingers plucked the pendant up. "You date Irish." He spat. "Irish have leprechaun dicks."

Wren pitched her half-finished cigarette aside and latched onto his fingers, twisting them sharply so that he dropped the pendant. "Watch your mouth, _Boris_. There are three people you don't want to piss off: your banker, your barista, and your bartender. I've been all three. Trust me when I say it never works out when you get one of them mad."

Ivan laughed deeply and crowded Wren against the wall where she leaned. "Now you listen to me: pretty birds like you should not sing when they do not know the words." His hands came down on her upper arms and squeezed. "Or pretty birds may find their wings are broken. Cancel date with Irish. You are going out with me."

He was leaning close enough that she could smell the vodka on his breath. She didn't like where this was headed. She took a deep breath and hooked one hand behind his neck while the other slid inside of his jacket and pulled the pistol she knew he was wearing out of the shoulder holster. She pressed the barrel into the soft spot beneath his jaw and dug it in while pulling his head down by his neck. "_Delo djran_," she began softly, before her thumb clicked the safety off. "_Mne nasrát', chto ty dúmaesh'_."

Ivan managed to sneer, even with a gun pressed into his throat. "_Za bazár otvétish'_," he growled.

Her hand moved quickly and before Ivan could squeeze out another sentence, Wren had the barrel of the gun wedged between his teeth and her thumbnail dug into the shell of his ear. Wrenching his head down to her mouth, she breathed against him, satisfied when he shuddered. "_Rasskazhí éto komú-nibúd' drugómu_." Then she shoved him off and tucked his pistol into the back of her jeans, under her shirt, and melted into the passing crowd.

* * *

_Some Russian translations:_

_Delo djran:_ this doesn't look so good

_Mne nasrát', chto ty dúmaesh'_: I don't give a shit what you think

_Za bazár otvétish'_: you'll be held accountable for what you said

_Rasskazhí éto komú-nibúd' drugómu_: tell it to someone who cares

* * *

Pam was standing outside of McGinty's when Wren showed up two hours later. The brunette looked bored, but broke into a smile when she noticed the petite blonde crossing the street.

"Hey," Wren greeted. "Not really the safest place to be hanging out," she chided. She reached for the handle of the door when Pam stopped her.

"Trust me, it's a lot safer out here than it is in there right now."

Wren cocked an eyebrow, and that was when she heard it: loud, angry shouting, mixed with glass shattering, loud crashes that were most likely bodies being thrown about, and The Pogues 'Dirty Old Town' blaring from Doc's weathered jukebox.

"Shit," Wren muttered, digging into her pocket for her cigarettes. "They been at it long?"

Pam shook her head. "A couple of Russian guys showed up and started bullying Doc. You know how protective Connor and Murphy can get."

"Did you say Russians?" Wren asked around the cigarette in her mouth.

"Yeah. Hey, did you know the boys can speak Russian?"

Wren stared at Pam for a beat. "What?"

Pam shrugged and snagged Wren's cigarette, taking a few dainty drags. "I'm serious! The one guy, I think he said his name was Ivan Chekov, came in and started threatening Doc. You know Murphy, always the class clown, he comes in with some Star Trek joke and then Chekov gets really pissed, right? Then all of a sudden Connor's up in their face spitting Russian like a wet cat and Murphy's right in there with him!" She handed the cigarette back and looked at Wren pointedly. "Are you all right? You don't look so good."

Wren opened her mouth to answer when suddenly, the din from McGinty's was cut off. There was a chorus of cheers and the scrape of tables and chairs along the scarred hardwood floors squeaked in the night. "What the hell are they doing in there?" Wren muttered.

"Cleaning house is my guess," Pam shrugged. "I'm not going back in until Connor tells me it's safe." She gestured at her dress. "I don't really want blood on me tonight."

Wren nodded faintly, but her mind was racing. Boston was a huge city but she couldn't believe how close things were within the mafia. The Ivan that Pam was talking about couldn't be the same one that threatened her at the bar, could it? A bellowing scream broke through her thoughts and she turned to Pam who stared back with wide eyes.

"What the…" Pam started.

She was cut off when two bodies came crashing out of the doors of McGinty's, flames bright against the cool spring night.

"Fuck," Wren muttered, torn between horrified and impressed. She recognized the hulking frame and deduced that this was indeed 'her' Ivan, who was currently scurrying about with flames licking from the ass of his trousers. She couldn't help but giggle, and as Ivan dampened the flames, he zeroed in on the source of laughter.

"Should have known you would be here. Is Irish boyfriend inside?" He forgot about his singed backside and came towards her, his hand settling on the gun inside of his coat.

Wren backed up, moving Pam behind her, and stuck her chin out defiantly. "_Ty menjá dostál_," she snapped. She heard Pam's sharp intake of breath, most likely out of surprise, but her eyes stayed glued to the hulking Russian.

"_Súka_," Ivan growled, advancing on her.

Murphy charged out of the bar, his fists flying as he cursed them loudly in Russian. Connor was hot on his heels, shouting threats at the second Russian who had put out his flaming crown. There was another chorus of cheers from the remaining patrons Ivan turned his attention to his partner.

"Irish leprechaun _dick_," Ivan barked. "Your bitch is just like you, not knowing when to shut up!"

Murphy rounded on Ivan and glared. "_Chto ty nesësh'_?" He looked around Ivan and saw Wren. "You _know_ this bastard?" he growled.

Wren's attention, however, was still on Ivan and the anger she had felt when he cornered her earlier. "_Sledí za bazárom, svóloch'_."

Ivan's partner gripped his leather jacket and pulled sharply. "_Poékhali!_" he hissed, glancing from Connor to Murphy, and back to Ivan. "Vanya!"

Ivan sniffed, and then growled at Wren once more. "I find you later, yes? You and your Irish _prick_ of a boyfriend." He spat on the ground next to Wren's shoe, another insult on his tongue, and then backed away with his partner before turning and booking it up Gray Street.

Connor jogged after them until they rounded the dark corner. "_Ischézni_," he hollered after them. He turned with a smirk. "Hey, Pam, issafe ta come…back…inside…" he trailed off as he noticed Wren's presence.

Murphy stood, swaying every so slightly, his gaze still narrowed as he looked closely at the petite blonde. "_Khotitye rasskazatʲ mnye, gdye vi ooznali roosskiy, kroshka_?"

* * *

_Some Russian Translations:_

_Ty menjá dostál_: I'm sick and tired of you

_Súka_: bitch

_Chto ty nesësh'_: what are you drivelling about?

_Sledí za bazárom, svóloch'_: watch your tongue

_Poékhali_: let's move / let's get out of here(quickly)

_Ischézni_: get lost

_Khotitye rasskazatʲ mnye, gdye vi ooznali roosskiy, kroshka_: want to tell me where you learned Russian, sweetheart?


	19. Chapter 19

The black town car that pulled up at that moment ceased all other conversation. Wren stiffened immediately with a pretty good idea of who was inside. Beside her, Pam looked on in interest; this car was similar to the one she'd seen Wren get into that morning. She hadn't mentioned it to Connor or Murphy. The twins looked on, practically bouncing on their toes, no doubt waiting for the emergence of some underboss from the Russian crime syndicate.

The driver, whom Wren recognized as Gareghty's regular driver Patrick, stepped out and rounded the car to the back door. Opening it wide, he waited while two men climbed out. The first was Ryan Donahue and he scanned the gathered McGinty's patrons with cool ease, his eyes resting on Wren for only a moment before flicking elsewhere. The second man was Mickey Monaghan, and he surveyed the situation and lit a cigarette before stepping onto the curb.

"_Evening, boys_," he began in Gaelic. He glanced at Wren and Pam. "And ladies," he added in English. He leaned to one side, peering in through the still open doors of Doc's bar, and then looked back to Connor and Murphy. "_You know who I am._"

The twins nodded, but were silent.

"_I have it on good authority that there may have been a…confrontation here tonight. A visit from the Russian mob?_"

"Tha fuck is it to ya?" Murphy growled.

Monaghan smiled at Murphy's tone. "It's nothin' ta me, Mr. MacManus. It's _everytin_' to Colm Gareghty."

Murphy glanced at Connor and muttered in Italian, "_How the fuck does he know who we are?_"

Donahue didn't miss the question, but he didn't let on he understood. He also didn't notice Pam eyeing him up – she was sure this was the same dark haired man she'd seen with Wren that morning. At first, she thought the pieces of this puzzle might be falling into place, but the more these guys talked, the more confused she became. Wren's discomfort did not go undetected by Pam, either.

"You've been on our radar for a while," Monaghan continued. "Bein' Irish an' all. Mr. Gareghty is very interested in meetin' you pair."

"Tell Gareghty he can go fuck himself," Connor snapped. "We're not interested."

Monaghan smiled again, only this time it didn't reach his eyes. He nodded to the sign that read _McGinty's_. "This your pub? Your whiskey house?"

"T'is," Connor snarked.

"Russians threatened to shut it down, aye?" Monaghan continued.

"We took care o'it," Connor replied.

"I'm sure ya did. Fer now. But dey'll be back, boyos, dey always are. An' when dey _do_ come back, who's gonna save yer asses? Colm Gareghty protects his own. He protects his Irish."

Connor exchanged a look with Murphy and a few seconds later, the dissolved into laughter. "Are ya fuckin' serious?" Connor chuckled.

"Da Black Irish gonna help save Doc's pub?" Murphy continued.

"For 'ow much?" Connor finished with an eye roll.

Monaghan smiled. "Gareghty's always interested in new prospects. I'm ta understand that the two of ya ran those Russians outta here?"

"M'not gonna be no knuckler for Colm Gareghty," Murphy announced vehemently.

"Aye," Connor piped up. "Dat goes fer both of us."

Monaghan grinned, nonplussed by the twins' rejection. He always had an ace in the hole. "Well, den. Maybe tonight isn't a good night, aye?" He finally looked at Wren. "Maybe we'll change yer mind soon enough. Let's go, _Éan Beag_," he finished, stepping aside and gesturing to the town car.

Five pairs of eyes settled on Wren – Connor, Pam, Monaghan, Donahue, and finally, Murphy. The sharp blue of the Irishman's eyes cut her the hardest and she flinched, looking hurriedly back to Monaghan, and then back to Murphy.

Murphy's breath caught in his throat as he watched Wren move towards the town car. He reached out and snagged her jacket sleeve, stopping her in her tracks. He spun her in his grasp, catching her upper arms and staring down at with eyes widen in disbelief.

"Wren?" He murmured gently. He glanced to Monaghan and back to the woman in his grasp. "What's goin' on, girl?"

She tipped her head up, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. The glow of the streetlight overhead caught the silver of her necklace. "_Ya nye khochoo vam bolʲno_," she breathed, pulling his hands from her arms. She squeezed his fingers, knowing that he understood the Russian she was speaking. "_Mnye nooʐno chtobi dovyeryatʲ mny._" Her eyes held his, pleading with him to do as she said.

Murphy shook his head, pulling his fingers from her grasp to cup her cheeks. "_Rasskaʐitye mnye, chto proiskhodit_" he replied softly.

"Let's go," Monaghan growled from behind them. "Say _Oíche mhaith_, MacManus."

She felt Donahue's hand clutch her shoulder from behind and Murphy picked his head up, narrowing his eyes at him. "Fuckin' let 'er go," he spat.

Monaghan laughed. "She's ours, MacManus. Bought and paid for. She'll be ours until Gareghty says otherwise."

She shook out of Donahue's hold and growled his name. "_Murph_," she began, holding his gaze with hers. "_On boodyet vsye prava na_.." She took a step back into Donahue's chest with a nod. "_Ya vyernoosʲ k vam_," she said solidly, staring into Murphy's eyes. "_Ya vsyegda boodyet vi_." She turned and nodded to Donahue, who stepped aside and placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her into the car.

"Wren," Murphy rasped, baring his teeth as Monaghan's man touched her. "Wren," he growled again, stronger this time. He snarled and leapt forward, only to have Connor catch him. "Fuckin' let me go, Conn!" Murphy howled. "Wren!" he cried out, scuffling with Connor in an attempt to get by.

"Let her go, Murph," Connor hissed, swallowing his own heartache.

Murphy twisted and finally broke out of his brother's hold, but it was in vain. The doors of the town car slammed shut and the vehicle bore his broken heart out into the night. He sprinted after the car, desperation working his muscles. He couldn't let her go, not again, and not like this. He heard Connor's steps behind him and when his brother put an arm around his shoulder, he shook him off violently.

"M'fine," he growled, sniffing sharply. The heels of his hands rubbed his eyes dry. "M'fine," he repeated, watching as the taillights vanished around a corner.

* * *

_Some Russian Translations_

_Ya nye khochoo vam bolʲno_: I don't want to hurt you

_Mnye nooʐno chtobi dovyeryatʲ mny_: I need you to trust me

_Rasskaʐitye mnye, chto proiskhodit_: tell me what is going on

_On boodyet vsye prava na_: It will be all right

_Ya vyernoosʲ k vam_: I'll come back to you

_Ya vsyegda boodyet vi_: I'll always come back to you

_Some Irish Translations:_

_Éan Beag_: Little Bird

_Oíche mhaith_: Good night

* * *

"You'll stay at my place tanight," Monaghan declared as they exited Southie and headed for Waltham.

"The hell I will," Wren snapped. She shot a hard glance at Donahue who refused to look in her direction and instead kept a keen eye on the streets that sailed past.

"Patrick, pull over," Monaghan ordered. The car immediately slowed and Monaghan stepped out. He stuck his head in and looked at Donahue expectantly. "Want ta help me out, Donahue?" he growled, nodding towards Wren.

Tightening his jaw, Donahue grabbed Wren's wrist with one hand and the back of her neck with the other, and pushed her out onto the curb. They were in some suburb, the streets dark and quiet. Wren swallowed thickly and tried to shake Donahue's grip, but it was no use. She watched as Monaghan reached into his coat and withdrew his gun, and pressed the barrel snug against her forehead.

"You've been given fair warnin' enough times, Ms. Abernathy. It makes no difference ta Gareghty whether ya live or die. Yer brudder still gets his money and Gareghty can always find some other gun fer hire."

Wren grinned wryly. "No one as good as me," she retorted. She felt a surge of triumph at Monaghan's hesitation.

Monaghan sneered and wrenched her out of Donahue's grip and forced her to her knees. "I can't fuckin' get trew to ya, can I?" he barked, spittle flying. "You've got a fuckin' answer fer everytin – you should have been a goddamn lawyer!"

She heard Donahue chuckle softly and she glanced up at him from where she knelt, looking around the barrel of the gun at him. "Laugh it up, jack ass," she growled. He shrugged, which made her clench her teeth harder.

"I'd love ta wipe da smirk off of yer face, literally," Monaghan continued. "But since we need yer pretty looks for Saturday, I'll have to settle for knockin' yer fuckin' lights out. Ya don't want ta cooperate, we'll do tings my way." He swung the gun back and brought it back around, the butt end of it connecting with Wren's skull with a dull thud.

Whatever comeback she had ready died there and she collapsed like a card house. "Get her back in tha car, Donahue. She's stayin' at my place tonight and yer gonna be there to make sure she stays put."


	20. Chapter 20

Her skull felt like it was split in two and her tongue was thick and useless in her mouth. Opening her eyes had been a bad idea and she winced at the bright light and groaned, squeezing her eyes closed once more. She tried shifting her body, finding that it felt heavy, but not sore in any places. A blow to the head, she surmised. It hadn't been the first time she'd suffered one. Her throat was dry.

"You awake?"

She recognized Donahue's voice and wasn't sure what to make of his presence. He'd obviously followed her from Grayson's to McGinty's, where shit had hit the fan. Then, he'd let Monaghan hold a gun to her head and had the nerve to chuckle as the fucker cracked jokes about her inability to shut up. She turned to his voice and dared to crack one eye open again, slowly this time, and sure enough, there was Donahue sitting in a rather ornate arm chair near the bed. He was in his shirtsleeves, a day's worth of dark beard shadowing his jaw, and it looked like he hadn't slept much. He tried a smile on her, but she merely grunted and closed her eye again.

"Want some water?"

She looked to see him move across the large expanse of room she was settled in and he busied himself at a small bar in the nook of one wall. He returned to her side and held out a tall glass of water with one hand, and a bottle of Advil with the other. With a wince, she managed to prop herself up, and she took the objects that Donahue offered. When she'd swallowed and found her voice, she used it.

"Where am I?"

Donahue took the empty glass and sank back into his chair. "Monaghan's house. Out in Waltham."

Her eyes widened comically. "Shit, _Waltham_?" She threw the covers back and noted her lack of clothing save for her underwear and bra. "Where are my clothes?"

Donahue blushed faintly and looked away, swallowing. "Uh…Monaghan took them. Figured you'd be less likely to take off when you woke up if you were more or less naked."

She snorted and swung her legs out of the bed. "Nice try," she mumbled. "I need to get back to the city," she stated. "Where's your phone?"

Lifting his hips from the chair, he reached into his pants pocket and dug it out. He hesitated and held it in his hand for a moment. "Who are you calling?"

Wren narrowed her eyes and held her hand out expectantly. "Who the fuck do you think I'm calling? You guys kinda crashed the party last night and scooped me up. I need to talk to Murphy…"

"You said he wasn't a problem anymore," Donahue pointed out as he stood. He slid the phone back into his pocket, watching her closely.

"Yeah, well, I lied," Wren shrugged. "Gimme." She waved her hand in a 'hand it over' gesture.

"No," Donahue shook his head. "I can't let you do that."

"You're kind of being a prick, Donahue."

He scowled. "I'm just trying to keep things in line."

Wren scoffed. "Oh, right. I forgot that was your job. Fine, then, _Warden_, you mind if I go to the bathroom? Or would you like to supervise that, too?"

He waved his hand to the door that led to the ensuite bathroom, rubbing his eyes with his other one. "Go."

When she returned, she was alone, and she quickly crossed the room and turned the door handle. It only turned halfway: locked. She sighed and surveyed the room. It was rather tastefully decorated, though it was clear that there were no females in Monaghan's life. The lines were classic, dark wood bed and floorboards to match the ornate chair Donahue had been sitting in. Just as she suspected, the bar was well stocked and, not knowing if or when she'd eat, she mixed herself a Southern Screw and padded to the windows.

The place she was in was large, almost obscenely; the bedroom she was in faced the back of the property. She spotted Donahue crossing the back lawn to a putting green. Monaghan was bent over his ball, dark russet hair tucked beneath a tweed cap. He barely glanced as Donahue approached, merely made his shot, and then looked at the security guard before swinging his eyes up to where Wren stood watching. She raised her glass and flipped him the bird, and though she couldn't hear him, she could tell by the way his shoulders shook that he was laughing. He tipped his hat and turned back to his game. A few seconds later, Donahue turned and headed back to the house.

Another twenty minutes passed, and she had another drink, and then she heard the lock on the door click open. Donahue strode in, a box in his hands, and he closed and locked the door behind him. He noticed the glass in Wren's hand and shook his head, before setting the box down on the bar. "These are from Gareghty," he said, gesturing to the box.

She set her glass down and eyed Donahue carefully before lifting the lid off of the box and peeling back the tissue. On top of the pile was a white satin dress, Oriental inspired with a mandarin collar and golden accents on the buttons and sleeves. Frowning, she picked it up and turned it over, and widened her eyes at the ornate golden dragon embroidered there. Her fingers crushed the satin as she clutched it, and she stared at Donahue.

"What the hell is this?"

"Gareghty wants you looking your best on Saturday night. Since you won't be going home anytime soon, he took the liberty of having that sent over." He reached and separated the remainder of the pile: jeans, t shirt, and socks. His gaze flicked to hers as he set aside a stack of underwear, and Wren smirked.

"You pick those out yourself?" she chided, tapping the pile of cotton and lace.

Donahue cleared his throat, a deep crimson blush starting at his shirt collar. "Gareghty's got connections," he mumbled.

Wren grunted in response and tossed the dress aside. "What do you mean I won't be going home?" She fiddled with a soft gray t shirt and picked it up, along with a pair of jeans and gray panties. She padded to the bed and deposited them there and turned her back to Donahue and set about stripping off her underwear.

"Just what I said: you won't be going home. And you won't be going back to Grayson's, either."

Wren paused and glanced over her shoulder, noting the way Donahue was watching her. She looked him in the eyes as she unhooked her bra and flung it to one side. He swallowed thickly, but otherwise didn't move. "So, just like that, Gareghty's taken over my life," she mused lowly.

"Just like that," Donahue nodded. "Wren, I need to tell you something…"

"I'll need a gun," Wren said over Donahue's wavering admission. "I'll need a few, actually, since my SIG and the MK23 are back at my place." She pulled the t shirt on, forgoing a bra, and stepped into a fresh pair of panties. Turning back to Donahue, she pulled on her jeans and fastened them.

Donahue took a hesitant step forward, looking down at Wren. "We need to talk about…" he tried again, only to be cut off when Wren raised a hand.

"Look. It's okay." She smirked, looking him up and down. "You think I don't notice what's been happening between us?" She moved into his space and trailed her fingers over the fine cotton of his shirt, up his chest and then across his shoulders. Her face tipped up to his, and her gaze landed on his lips before lifting to his impossibly dark eyes. "If you wanna fuck me, just say so." She shrugged, a cruel grin on her face. "Not like I have anything else to do at the moment."

Donahue's face hardened and he caught her hands, pulling them off of him. He stepped back and pushed her away at the same time, a growl behind his teeth.

She snorted at his antics and rolled her eyes, moving to the bar once more. "What's wrong, Donahue? Afraid I don't know where your loyalties lay?" She quirked an eyebrow at him in challenge.

His jaw tightened and he stalked to the door, his dark eyes stormy. Wrenching the door open, he looked out into the hallway. "I'll talk to Monaghan about getting you a gun or two. Gareghty will be here this afternoon. Something's come up and it needs to be taken care of." He slipped out of the room and shut the door behind him, throwing the lock back into place.

Wren huffed and sank onto the bed, staring at the pile of clothes. What did Gareghty think, that she was his fucking Barbie doll? She hated dresses to begin with, not to mention that they were almost impossible to work in – bartending or otherwise. She hated being caged in, too; didn't know anyone who particularly enjoyed being locked in a bedroom. Christ, she didn't even have a cigarette…

A hollow buzzing sound startled her and she perked up, glancing about the room. She followed the sound to the pile of clothes near the bar and rifled through it until her hand landed on the vibrating plastic of Donahue's cell phone. She froze, glancing about the room, before flipping it over and reading the screen:

_One new text message_

She hit the 'open' key and scrolled down, reading carefully:

_You have no idea where my loyalties lay_.

_- Ryan_

Her breath caught in her throat and she looked back to the door Donahue had left through only moments before. There was no time to waste; she closed the message and rapidly dialled the twins' number by heart.

* * *

"Your brother is going to be fine, Mr…" the nurse trailed off, looking up from the chart she was holding, and glanced at Murphy.

"O'Malley," he replied cautiously, casting a wary glance around the waiting room. He was still jacked from that morning and felt that at any moment, another round of Russian soldiers would barrel into the hospital and threaten his life once more.

After Wren had been swallowed up in Monaghan's town car, he'd found solace in a bottle of Bushmill's and Pam's couch, Connor and Pam nearby and going drink for drink with him. They'd passed out sometime around three and woken at six, Murphy no worse for wear as he didn't get hangovers. Connor was a little rough around the edges, but a shot of hair o' the dog and he was good to make the trek back to Southie to prepare for another day of work. Pam had waved them both off, bleary-eyed and groaning, and thankful she didn't work at all that day.

He and Connor had barely made it back from Pam's before all hell had broken loose at the loft. Ivan Chekov and his partner had busted in, cuffed Connor to a toilet and toted Murphy off into the alley below, hell bent on blowing his brains across the dumpster he knelt in front of. When his brother had rained down from the sky with the toilet, Murphy had jumped, rather surprised, but had quickly launched into action. While Connor lay collapsed at his feet, the darker twin took out his rage on Chekov's partner, Chekov being already laid out, possibly dead. Murphy hefted the toilet tank lid and laid into the second Russian like he was batting in the Series. Satisfied that neither Russian would be waking up, he collected their valuables, stuffed them into a nearby bag, and then hauled Connor up and over his shoulders, and booked it down to HolyCrossMemorialHospital.

Murphy had suffered no more than a few bumps and scrapes, but Connor seemed to have fared much worse. His wrists were bandaged up, having been mangled from the handcuffs he tore at, and the wind had been knocked out of him with the landing in the alley five floors below. A twisted ankle, nothing that would require more than ice and rest (like that would happen), and bruised ribs, the nurse announced, but otherwise, Connor was fine, and would be out momentarily. The nurse left Murphy in the hall across from the exam room where Connor was being patched up, but the darker MacManus didn't stay seated for long. He slipped into the room just as Connor was pulling the blood-stained housecoat back over his shoulders.

Connor grinned at his brother, wincing as he slid off of the bed. "Come on, Murph, can't look dat bad, can it?"

Murphy snorted with a roll of his eyes. "Looks like ya tore a toilet clean up from tha floor and took it on a five-floor header wit' ya out a window."

Connor paused and nodded faintly. "Aye, dat's what it feels like." He watched as Murphy crossed the room. They leaned forward, clutching the back of the other's neck, and pressed their foreheads together, a memory of a twin's embrace shared since conception.

"_Riamh tá mé I bhfad ar shiúl_," Murphy murmured softly, clutching Connor's hair.

"_Tá mé ceart I gcónai taobh thiar_," Connor replied, squeezing Murphy's neck in return.

They stayed like that for a moment longer before breaking apart. As soon as Connor was ready, they headed back out into the waiting area of the hospital.

"I doubt we can get anywhere near the flat," Connor murmured, sinking back against the wall and grinning at a small boy tucked up on a gurney.

Murphy nodded. "Aye. Cops are probably swarmin' tha place." He shoved the bag full of the Russian's valuables towards his brother. "We gotta do somethin' wit' dis."

Connor nodded again, still feeling lightheaded. "Call Doc. He'll come down 'ere fer us." He made a goofy face at the boy across the hall and then wandered over, intent on lifting the boy's spirits.

Murphy nodded, leaving the bag with Connor and headed up to the nurse's station to use the phone.

* * *

_Some Gaelic Translations:_

_Riamh tá mé I bhfad ar shiúl_: I'm never far away

_Tá mé ceart I gcónai taobh thiar_: I'm always right behind you


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: of course you know where this is going, pitbullsrok! Well, you KINDA know...you did have a hand in one of the upcoming chapters...anyway, thanks for your reviews, everyone, I'm glad this is still getting a good response...I know it's been lacking in the smut department as of late...and I hope to rectify that! Got to get Murph and Wren in the same room to see some action, though, and it might be a bit yet...but hopefully you're still entertained!_

* * *

The MacManus phone line had been busy for the last hour. Wren had tried it every fifteen minutes to no avail. They were probably at work; the most reasonable explanation for the busy signal was that one of the boys hadn't hung up the phone properly. She hit the 'end call' button again and slipped the phone back into her pocket. When she heard the rattle of the lock at her door, she turned, expecting it to be Donahue, but instead it was Tommy Callahan, and she immediately went on guard.

He sauntered into the room and paused at the bar and glanced at the pile of clothing, picking up the white dress and holding it up. With a low whistle, he spoke: "This is gonna look great on that tight little body of yours," he grinned, flashing a look her way. "Hope I can keep my head in the ring."

Wren shifted, uncomfortable with his presence, and looked about the room for possible escape routes. Callahan laughed as her gaze jumped about the room. "Relax, woman, I'm not here to try anything. You eaten?" He glanced at the remnants of orange juice and SoCo in the glass at the bar. "Other than a liquid meal?" He shook his head and nodded to the door. "Come on. You must be hungry."

She was; starving, actually. Not that she would give him the satisfaction of an answer, but she moved to the door anyway. "Where's Donahue? Thought he had the privilege of keeping an eye on me."

"More like the pleasure," Callahan muttered. "He's down at the gate house going over a few things for Gareghty's arrival in a few hours." He shut the door behind them and then led Wren down the hall to a sprawling staircase. At the bottom, there were two options, left, to some place unknown to her, and right, to the kitchen, where Callahan took her. An older man in shirtsleeves and an apron stood expectantly, smiling as they came into the kitchen. "This is O'Hallaran. He'll make you anything you want."

O'Hallaran smiled and nodded. "Would you like some coffee?"

"Fuck yes," Wren muttered, noting the way O'Hallaran frowned at her choice of words. She looked to Callahan. "Can I get a cigarette?"

"There's no smoking in the house, Ms…" O'Hallaran trailed off while he busied himself with the percolator on the stove.

"Abernathy," Callahan supplied. He looked at Wren and gestured to a set of double doors leading to a patio. "Come on, you can smoke out there."

* * *

"So, I figure we can safely say she's workin' fer tha Black Irish," Connor muttered to his twin where they sat waiting in the hospital.

Murphy sighed and glanced back up the hall, watching for Doc. "Aye, but…something doesn't add up."

"What's there to add up?" Connor groused. "She was escorted away by Mickey fuckin' Monaghan in the back of a town car. If that doesn't say 'workin' fer the Irish', I don't know what does."

Murphy rubbed his lips and pulled at the threads on the worn collar of his robe. "She asked me ta trust her, Conn. I can't help but think there's more to it than her just agreeing ta work for dem…"

"Jesus, Mary, n'Joseph, Murph!" Connor snapped, bringing about the heads of a few nuns gathered nearby. Connor muttered an apology and made the sign of the cross. He turned his head closer to Murphy. "Ya can't feckin' trust a lass dats been lyin' dis whole feckin' time," he hissed sharply.

Murphy narrowed his eyes, knowing that Connor was at least half right. But what about Wren's side of the story? He had told Pam he wanted to talk to the girl, at least giver her a chance to explain. That had been taken away from him last night. He pressed his fingers into his eyelids and groaned.

"Look," Connor continued, a little softer this time. "I know how ya feel about her, aye? I get dat. But what I don't get is how – or why – she's mixed up wit' a butcher like Gareghty. She led em to our fuckin' doorstep, Murph," he stressed.

"She was just as surprised by them as we were," Murphy fought back.

Connor shook his head. "I don't like dis one bit."

"I'm not askin ya ta trust 'er, Conn. Dat's my job. I'm askin' ya ta trust _me_."

"Dats low, even fer you, Murph," Connor fumed. His own twin didn't need to ask him that.

"I need ta know yav got me back, Connor," Murphy said solemnly. "Shit's about ta hit da fan, I can feel it."

Connor swore again and sighed. "You know I've got yer back, brudder. Always will, aye?" He picked his head up at the familiar shout of 'Fuck! Ass!' coming from down the hall. "C'mon, den. Doc's here. Gotta find out if it's safe ta go out in tha daylight."

* * *

Wren stared down at the table in Monaghan's dining room, blueprints of a building spread all around, and maps of downtown Boston pushed to one side. "What's this all about?" she asked, glancing up at the gathered faces. Nate was there, because Callahan was there, and so were Donahue and Monaghan. Gareghty had arrived an hour before lunch and she had been shown into the dining room by O'Hallaran.

"This," Monahan said as he stood, tapping the blueprint, "is CopelyPlaza."

Wren nodded, cocking her head and glancing at the plans. "I thought we were doing a boxing match in Southie?"

Monaghan glanced to Nate and shrugged. "You want ta bring yer sister up ta speed? After all, you gathered the intel." He gestured to the table and sat back as Nate began to speak.

"When I was in the bar on St. Patty's, I was seated near the Russian table. I overheard a few different things. The first one was the takeover at McGinty's. From what I understand, your boys took care of that one."

Wren stared evenly at her brother, refusing to give him any ammunition by reacting to the mention of McGinty's, and instead waited for him to continue. Nate nodded and began speaking again.

"The second thing I overheard was plans for a meeting – a big one, at that. It seems as though Yuri Petrov – the _Fat Man_ – is coming to Boston tomorrow night to crack some skulls." Nate smirked at his sister. "Seems there's been some concern with the number of underbosses gone missing as of late."

The room erupted into a ripple of chuckles, and she felt more than a few pairs of eyes land on her.

"The meeting is slated for seven pm, CopelyPlaza, in the Presidential Suite."

Wren scoffed. "I'm having a hard time believing that the Russians were that loose with sensitive information."

Callahan interjected. "I'm screwing one of the front desk clerks at Copely," he supplied with a wink.

"Of course you are," Wren muttered, looking back to Nate and then to Monaghan. "Brass tacks," she said. "What do you want me to do?"

Gareghty spoke then. "First off, Mr. Donahue has informed me that you require a gun, maybe two. I've arranged for you to meet with an arms dealer tomorrow before noon. He'll make sure you've got what you're looking for. We want _you_ to take out the Fat Man, Ms. Abernathy. You and Donahue have been booked in at the Westin, across the street from Copely Plaza, here," he finished, pulling out a map and tapping to the section of the city he referred to. "You will take the Fat Man out from the twentieth floor. Mr. Donahue will be stationed off site at this building," he explained, tapping another section of the downtown core. "In and out. Think you can handle it?"

Of course she could handle it, despite Gareghty's mislabelling of 'in and out'. These things were never 'in and out', something always tended to fuck up. She didn't voice her concerns, though, and opted for nodding in slience.

"Good," Gareghty smiled.


	22. Chapter 22

The rain falls softly. It accompanies his brother's breathing, a gentle lull to sleep, a dream, a whisper, a name murmured gently in the spring breeze. The cell is cold and damp, not unlike their flat, and the bed is hard on his spine, but he closes his eyes. When he does, he sees her, every second spent with her, smiles, and laughter, angry words, and the heated, rough slide of desperate fingers and mouths. He shifts, sleep just out of reach, and beside him, Connor murmurs gently, as he always has, telling Murphy to go to sleep, that he needs to rest.

* * *

She lays awake, blinds open, rain falling hard against the glass, making streaked patterns of the moonlight against the opposite wall. Here in the suburbs, it falls harder, coming in from the ocean, and the wind shakes the trees outside. She hasn't heard leaves in a long time; when she closes her eyes she does not see him at first. Instead, she sees the damp bogs and riverland where she spent her summers. A tiny fishing village in Listvjanka; she did not learn to tie flies or repair nets; she smells the smoked salmon and the oil of her grandfather's Mauser M59. He tells her that she is a very good shot for such a little bird, and he points to another target, this one a rusted can that once held beans.

* * *

He finally falls into something that resembles sleep, but it is riddled with more dreams, and much later, when he discusses them with Connor, he realizes that they are in fact visions, a calling. The voice is neither male nor female, it is resonant, and he feels it in his bones. This is his purpose, the right hand of God, and Connor the left, justice and truth: two sides of the same coin.

* * *

_Vam loochshye vsyego_. She has been told this since the beginning. Use it, she is urged, to vanquish, to retaliate, to destroy. Use it to your advantage. _Nye dopooskaytye ispolʲzovaniya vi_. She wakes, gasping, the echoes of that age-roughened voice still clear in her mind. _Do not let it use you_. It is still night; it is still raining.

* * *

_Destroy all which is evil_. It roars in his ears, in his blood, his faith, his heart, and it suddenly all makes sense. He will not be alone; he will carry out these deeds, his other half beside him, always. He wakes, gasping, echoes of that endless voice still clear in his mind. He finds Connor next to him, gasping as well, and he repeats the mantra in his head: "Destroy all which is evil."

Connor's reply is simple, heated with as much passion as his brother's: "So that which is good may flourish."

* * *

She has not dreamt of her grandfather in a very long time. There is no way she is going back to sleep, not after that. Her skin crawls and she shudders as she takes a deep breath and holds it. _It's over_, she tells herself.

_It will never be over_, herself tells her back.

She finds refuge in the kitchen. Good behaviour has warranted an unlocked bedroom door and she steals down the steps into the darkened house. The giant, stainless steel fridge hums on one side of the room and she crossed to it, opening it and casting a cold, bleak light into the room.

"Couldn't sleep?" a voice murmurs from behind.

She whirls, hand closing around the closest weapon she can find: a carrot. She's done damage with less. Squinting, she can just make out Donahue seated at the table in the alcove. The rain pounds against the glass there, too, and there is a distant flash of lightening. It is enough for her to see the half bottle of whiskey in front of him, his fingers curled around a glass.

"Not before a hit," she replies. "What's your excuse?"

"Kinda had a shit day," he mutters, and in the shadows she can see the glass move to his lips and then back down before he reaches for the bottle and pours another measure. "Want a drink?"

She answers him by sliding into the seat across from him. He shoves the bottle in her direction and she drinks straight from it, the sweet burn familiar, but not enough to take the edge off. She takes another, and then one more. Her stomach is warm and she sits the bottle upright between them as the lightening flashes once more.

"Did you get a hold of him?" Donahue asks, staring into his glass.

She shakes her head and then lifts her hips from the chair, fishing in her jeans for his phone. It slides across the table and clanks the side of his glass gently. "I think I may have misjudged you." She doesn't tell him she's slightly anxious to hear from Murphy; that the endless busy signal weighs heavily on her mind. She looks closely at Donahue and frowns when he refuses to look at her. "I crossed a line today, didn't I?"

"No," he sighs sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "You just put a label on something I'm trying my hardest to avoid."

She doesn't know whether to be relieved or hurt. She shifts in her seat and then stands, crossing to the doors overlooking the rain-soaked sloping lawn of the backyard. The scrape of a chair across slate tile follows and she turns to watch, frozen, as Donahue crosses to where she stands. She can smell the soap he's used, his aftershave, and leather; they stand but a foot apart.

She swallows around the sudden lump in her throat.

He quickly closes the gap between them, before he loses his nerve and she says something caustic to blow the mood. He barely kisses her, just touches his lips to hers softly, and breathes her in through his nose. He hears her breath hitch and pulls back a fraction of an inch to look at her.

Her eyes are closed. He figures this is a good sign. She's made fists with her hands at the sides of her body and he reaches for them, stroking the pads of his fingers along her knuckles until her fingers loosened and he is able to lace their hands together. With a quick tug forward, he pulls her flush against him and covers her mouth with his, and he pours all of his eager and obvious attraction to her into the kiss. He catches her cheeks, cupping them gently and moving her head with his, until at last he feels her mouth open and the hot, velvet slide of her tongue against his.

Suddenly, her lips are gone it takes Donahue a moment to realize that he misses the taste of her mouth. He opens his eyes to find her looking up at him questioningly.

"You and I have a very different definition of 'avoid'," she quips before pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.

Donahue groans at her joke and his lack of resolve. He shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he rasps.

"No, it's okay," Wren replies. Her fingers fiddle with the thin silver chain that still swings at her neck.

Donahue sees the rise and fall of her chest, his dark eyes narrowing at the sight of the chain he knows is from MacManus. He cuts her off. "Just…don't say anything else, okay? Don't give me any story about how you're with MacManus, or you're not, or whatever else you're going to say." He collapses into his chair with a sigh and picks up his whiskey, nodding at the seat she had occupied. "Sit down."

She does after a moment, pulling the bottle back to her and taking a sip. "I'm still trying to figure you out," Wren murmurs, giving Donahue a pensive look.

He shrugs. "Whatever do you mean," he returns flatly.

"This whole…shooting people thing…you're not a big fan of it, are you? I mean, you don't believe in the cause. Not the way a man on Gareghty's team should."

This time, Donahue snorts and shootst her an incredulous look. "You're talking to a guy who's Italian _and_ Irish. You remember what I said about my loyalties?"

Wren purses her lips, unconvinced. "Yeah," she says slowly. "But it's not like you were exactly pissed off when I took down Barsetti and Romano. Not to mention the fact that you don't seem to really care for the men you work for."

"You don't like them either," Donahue points out. "And didn't you take down seven Russians?"

"Six," Wren corrects. " Markovic was Ukranian. And I suppose you're right, in a sense. But then again, I never did hold that half of my parentage close to my heart."

Donahue sets his whiskey down. "You think you're the only one trying to figure someone out?"

"Please," Wren sighs, rolling her eyes. "You probably know just as much about me as I do." She quirked an eyebrow. "Maybe more."

He sits a little straighter and glances down into his whiskey. "What makes you say that?" When he looks up, his black eyes are endless in the dark.

She waves a dismissive hand at him. "You're head of Gareghty's security. I would assume that part of your job is digging up dirt on those that work for him, making sure something doesn't backfire."

He lifts one shoulder, indifferent. "It's not like all of your secrets are out there for the taking. And despite the dipshit your brother is, he didn't give up anymore than your name and your alias." The smile that he flashes borders on pensive affection. "Even with that, there was only so much I could find out about you."

"Like what?" She smiles softly and leans across the table.

"You like guns."

She laughs out loud at this; she can't hold it in. It's such an absurd – and honest – statement. Still chuckling, she nods. "Does it show?"

Donahue shrugs. "Well, you were rather demanding this morning. Guess I'll get to witness it first hand tomorrow. Gareghty's got you meeting the arms dealer at eleven. I'm your escort."

Wren nods and then narrows her eyes. "What else did you find out about me?"

"That you don't like your mother, but you hate your father even more."

This makes her sit back and she thinks on it for a spell. "That is also true," she murmurs.

"Your real name…"

Wren puts up a hand to stop him, her blue eyes dark and hard. "I know my own name," she mutters.

He waits a beat. "Who is Arkady?"

She stands swiftly. "I don't think I want to hear anymore."

Donahue moves with her, crossing the kitchen and following her as she tries to leave. He catches her hand when she reaches the doorway. "It's your past," he reasons.

"And I've relived it several times before." She frowns, looks at her hands. "I'm reliving it now." The next breath she takes is shuddering and she looks up at Donahue where he looms before her in the rain-splashed shadows. "I'll see you tomorrow," she says softly. Her hand turns over in his and then slides up his arm to the back of his neck. She tugs swiftly, raises on her toes, and kisses his cheek. "You aren't fooling me, you know," she mutters, pulling back enough to look into his eyes. "Sooner or later, I'm going to figure you out." She turns and vanishes into the darkened hallway.

* * *

_Some Russian translations:_

_Vam loochshye vsyego_: You are the best

_Nye dopooskaytye ispolʲzovaniya vi_: Do not let it use you


	23. Chapter 23

The next moring, Wren sat silently next to Donahue and listened as he spoke rapidly with the man seated across the low table. She guessed it was Irish Gaelic; she'd heard Murphy and Connor speak something similar, and the large mural of the Irish flag along with '_Erin go bragh_' on the wall behind him was a dead giveaway. Oh, and the guy Donahue was speaking with was Liam Gareghty, the younger Gareghty brother that managed to _not_ get shot by Colm. Liam was an arms dealer, and behind him in a cage were weapons of varying degree, from small sidearms and pistols, to large rapid-fire multi-barrel machine guns. The conversation stopped abruptly, and Donahue turned to Wren.

"C'mon. Time to go shoppin'." He flashed her a small smile.

The intensity of the previous evening's conversation had waned, but there was still a lot of unresolved issues between them, both personally and professionally. They had made a silent agreement of sorts on the ride over, both choosing to ignore the obvious for the time being and focus instead on the task before them. They could hash things out later.

Wren looked up at Gareghty's head of security, and then watched as Liam Gareghty swung open the gate and pocketed a large wad of bills. Taking a deep breath, she nodded at Donahue and stood, wiping sweating palms on the thighs of her jeans.

"Me brudder tinks ya know yer stuff," Liam smirked near the gate. "I'll be over dere if ya have any questions, aye?" He pointed to a small desk that held a lap top.

"Right," Wren muttered. He sounded more genuinely Irish than his older brother and she briefly wondered how close the remaining Gareghty brothers actually were. She first stepped up to the wall adorned with pistols. Shit, there was a lot to choose from. Her instinct was to go for the pair of Desert Eagles with silencers, but she thought better of it. It was a big gun and not the easiest to hide on her person. Reluctantly, she passed, and instead feasted her eyes upon a Beretta 8045 Cat Pack, complete with cougar inlaid grips. She couldn't help but grin as her fingers closed over the grip and lifted it from the case. Turning, she extended her right arm with the gun held close in her fingers and stretched it out to sight, looking down the barrel and straight at Donahue. She pulled the trigger, and the hollow, cool _clink _of the unloaded fire made him bring his head up.

He chuckled at the obvious expression of delight that flitted over her features. "Do we like?"

Wren narrowed her eyes in thought and pulled the gun back. Turning back to the table, she disassembled and then reassembled the gun in less than ninety seconds. "We like," she nodded, her fingertips gliding over the cougar emblem stamped into the charcoal finish of the grip.

Donahue appeared over her shoulder and snorted. "Canary that got the cat?"

"Something like that," Wren murmured, her eyes already scanning the wall again. She spotted a real treasure just out of her reach and leaned back to see Liam at his laptop. "Hey, Irish, hand me that one," she said, pointing.

Liam rolled his eyes and wandered back into the arms cage and stood next to Wren. "Aye, which of the pretty guns does the lass want ta see?" he teased. He hoped she was quick; he had another appointment in half an hour with _serious_ buyers. His brother Colm could talk the tiny little lass up all he wanted to; women and guns did _not_ mix in Liam's book.

"The Walther P99."

Liam stared at her for a moment. "Yev seen too many Bond films," he drawled. He plucked it off the wall and handed it to her, watching as she held it in her palm for a moment and sighted it.

Wren ignored the dig; used to the general male chauvinistic view of women and firearms, she decided she'd school him instead of bitching at him, like he no doubt expected. She handed the Walther back, shaking her head, and instead pointed to the wall featuring sniper rifles.

"The Zastava M93 Black Arrow."

"Ya certain ya want dat one?" Liam asked as he stretched to lift it down. He held it out to her. "Dats a lot of gun, lass," he sneered.

Wren plucked the gun from his hands and easily unfolded the bipod, and, once it was standing, reached and slid the bolt. The familiar _clunk_ made her fingers tingle. "Mauser bolt-action with a muzzle brake – that's 62% less recoil, making subsequent shots easier. Not that you would need a subsequent shot; the fluted barrel is designed for precision and accuracy. Built for hardly visible targets so it needs its optical sight…" she trailed off and spied the scope next to where the gun had hung. "And there it is. I'm assuming you have the rounds necessary?"

Liam blinked and looked to Donahue, who was staring at Wren, his eyes glazed over. "Ya said she was a bartender," Liam drawled, watching in awe as the girl attached the scope and practiced sighting it.

"I _am_ a bartender," Wren called back, still fiddling with the rifle.

"Marry me," Liam blurted out.

"I saw her first," Donahue finally spoke up with a grin.

"Sorry boys," Wren said as she stood straight. "But I follow a strict code of not dipping the pen in company ink." She looked to Donahue. "This one is pretty. I like it, too."

"Ye can like 'em all, lass," Liam chuckled. He tossed her a black duffel bag. "Knock yerself out."

* * *

_Click._

_Click._

_Boom._

The sound of the bolt triggers something inside and she shakes, a million reasons why she ran washing over her. She didn't choose this life.

_It chose you._

She sweats. Hearing the voice again makes her itch and she has to stop, pull back from the scope and lean against the wall beneath the window where she's perched.

She got out long ago.

Too bad the fever is still in her system.

_It will be there until the day you die._

She sneers and takes a deep breath, and once more crouches behind the blind and flicks her dark blue gaze through the scope. To the east is her target, a window at the Copely Plaza Hotel. Donahue is tucked somewhere in the building on Dartmouth and Stuart, a second vantage point, and she hears her earpiece click in.

"I see eight," Donahue's voice brings her back to here and now.

She takes a moment and carefully counts. Her luck tonight is unbelievable: they've left a curtain open a fraction, no more than eight inches, but it's enough. "Copy that, eight in total…wait a second," she mutters. "There are nine. One at the bar. He's just coming across the room now."

Donahue's voice comes back. "You're right." She hears him chuckle. "They said you were good."

She smiles at the obvious awe in his voice. "I'm the best."

_You are the best._

Her finger hovers on the trigger. "Waiting for visual on target."

They called him the Fat Man. She wasn't given a picture, but it shouldn't be too hard to discern the crime boss from the under bosses. One by one, the underlings assemble and sit in a nice, neat circle.

"Confirmed," Donahue replies.

He sounds like he's right beside her. He's really worlds away. "Visual acquired. Looks like he's wearing a bad tan suit. Jesus, this guy is shaped weird. Like, awkward weird. He has that old man fat gut that kinda travels from below the rib cage to just before his junk."

Wren rolls her eye – the other one is trained on those eight inches in the curtain. "Just the necessary details, honey."

"Sorry, dear."

She chuckles at the endearment. They booked the room at the Westin Copely under Mr. and Mrs. Hill, newlyweds from Missouri, and Ryan does a fair job of a slack Midwestern accent.

"Target has moved to the bathroom."

"Copy that. Think I have time to enjoy this champagne they sent up?" Wren reaches out blindly and snags the tray of chocolate covered strawberries from on top of the room service cart.

"Champagne? Seriously?" Donahue sounds put out.

"Isn't there a Starbucks, like, fifty feet below you?"

"Yeah, but there's a long line."

Wren snickers. "Too bad."

"Want to get a beer afterwards?"

Wren ducks back from the window and looks into the darkened room. "I thought we had to report back to Gareghty."

"He can wait a few hours."

"You sure about that?"

"You think I give a fuck?."

"See, that's what I'm talking about. For a man who's supposed to be head of security and in charge of taking care of things, you're fairly liberal when it comes to your own tasks." Wren pulls the bottle of champagne down and a glass and pours some out. She takes a sip, feeling her tongue shrivel. It tastes awful and she now knows why it was au gratis.

"He doesn't pay me enough to care."

"Really," Wren drawls flatly. "So why do you work for him?"

There's a pause and Wren reads the label on the bottle: Charles Lafitte Rosé. Ugh, the label is pink, too. She sets the champagne down and reaches for another strawberry.

"Target has returned," Donahue suddenly says, deftly dodging Wren's question.

Wren has to put the whole strawberry in her mouth and she crushes the hard chocolate shell and the tender flesh beneath. The flavour bursts on her tongue and she sighs just a little, groaning thickly at the taste.

"What are you doing?" Donahue sounds intrigued.

"Playing with myself."

"WHAT?" He's said that a little too loudly.

Wren frowns. "You want to keep it down? I think the couple in the room beside us heard that."

"Seriously, what are you doing?"

"Eating chocolate covered strawberries."

"Jesus, I got the short end of this deal."

"Lord's name," Wren mumbles, leaning on the window sill. "Quit bitching. If you're a good boy, I'll buy you a caramel macchiato."

"Non fat," Donahue insists.

"Fucking pansy," Wren replies. "Target in sight, but no clear shot. Buddy in the front row has a huge head…you weren't kidding, Donahue, this guy is weird fat."

She hears the grin in his reply. "Told ya."

"Hold on. Must be my night. Giant head guy moved to the bar." She watches Yuri Petrov wander around his circle of lackeys, his mouth moving as his eyes narrow and his hands made short, quick gestures. "I wish we had audio. He's really bitching these guys out." She waits another heartbeat. "Kill radio contact until shot has been fired."

"Copy that."

She is alone in the dark room once more.

_Click._

_Click._

Her hands are steady. She takes a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds, and lets it out slowly. Then she does it again. The Fat Man is pacing in a regulated pattern. Six seconds out of frame, three in, six out, three in again. She counts in her head. One, two, three. He disappears. One, two, three. He disappears. She takes a last breath as she counts to six, exhales.

_Three_. Her finger caresses the trigger.

_Two_. Her tongue presses against her top lip.

_One_. She squeezes and holds as the last molecules of oxygen leave her lungs.

_Boom._

All hell breaks loose.


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: That was a rather evil place to leave off, wasn't it? Be thankful, I was thinking of letting that hang in the breeze for another week! Anyway, like I said, I'm trying to avoid rehashing what goes on in the movie unless it's pertinent to my story. Most of us know all too well what happens in the movie, if we wanted to read the dialogue, we'd find a script. I've slightly tweaked scenes from here on out, added a few, mushed a few together just to make it work to my advantage, but the main tone of the original film is still there. Everybody ready?_

_Thanks again for your reviews, manna from heaven, people!_

* * *

What were the odds of a second hit?

Wren stared, removed once more, and watched with morbid fascination as two things happened at the same time:

One: Her bullet stabbed clean through the window, shattering it, and sank directly through the back of giant head guy because

Two: A pair men dressed in black ski masks descended from the ceiling vent trussed up _upside down_ and proceeded to eliminate every underboss gathered in the room with heavily silenced pistols. The assembled men had erupted like hot popcorn kernels and started bouncing all over the place. Giant head guy just happened to get in the way at exactly the same time Wren took her shot.

"Holy _shit_!" Donahue yelped from his vantage point. "What the fuck…"

Wren made a sound of disbelief and quickly looked back through the scope as one man reached with a knife to the rope wrapped around their ankles. Soon enough they collapsed on the floor, disappearing behind the couch. Seconds later they popped back up and began gesticulating, first to the gaping hole in the ceiling and then to a frayed end of the rope. There was something familiar about the way they moved and the way their body language bounced between them. One shoved the other, only to be shoved in return, and then they reached for their ski masks.

There was a loud thumping on the door and Wren swore and ducked back under the window. She froze, staring through the darkened room at the door, and jumped again when the pounding continued.

"Wren," Donahue's voice was a cautious whisper as it came over the radio.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hill?" A voice sounded in the hallway outside of the door. "I'm Greg Pierson, concierge here at the Westin Copely. I'm sorry to bother you but I just wanted to ensure that everything up here is satisfactory for you two newlyweds!"

She squeezed her eyes shut and replayed the last ninety seconds in her mind.

"Wren, do you copy?" Donahue's voice came back in her ear.

She tore the ear piece out and crouched behind the sight of the rifle once more. The broken window from her shot allowed the breeze to ruffle the long curtains in the Russian's hotel room and she could make out more of the scene. Each underboss had died where he had sat, no time to draw a weapon. She watched as the two men began walking a circle, stopping at each body, bending, standing straight, and either one or the other would make the sign of the cross. Neither of them turned in her direction and she had to make due with the backs of their heads. She swore again.

"Mrs. Hill?"

The vibration of her phone in the pocket of her pants surprised her and she sprawled back on the floor, clawing the device from her pants and holding it up. There was a text message from Donahue:

_Lost radio contact. Get out. Meet at NW corner of Dartmouth and Newberry._

"Just a second, please," she called back to the door, albeit shakily.

Her heart was racing. Every limb shook like Jell-o, making her feel weak. Her hands didn't want to cooperate as she reached for the sight and she forced herself to look once more at the scene across the street. There was no denying it: two unknown vigilantes had crashed through the ceiling and taken out the majority of Boston's ruling Russian mob. With trembling hands, she scooped her phone from the floor and texted Donahue back, confirming their rendezvous point. Working as quickly as her hands could she dropped her pants and pulled her top over her head. She shrugged into a hotel bathrobe, pulled her hair out of her ponytail and messed it up. Then, she opened the door, and smiled broadly at Greg Pierson.

"Hi…Greg, is it?"

The concierge smiled pleasantly and nodded. "So happy to meet you! I'm sorry if I interrupted. Was there anything that you or your husband needed?" He craned his head to look through the crack in the door above Wren's head.

"Ummm…" she quickly glanced back, seeing that the rifle was still perched on the windowsill. In the darkness, however, it looked more like a… "Telescope," Wren explained, looking back at the concierge with a small smile. "Astronomy is a hobby of mine." Jesus, _that_ sounded lame. Astronomy in the middle of downtown Boston?

"Oh," Greg said with a faltering smile.

She knew he was thinking the exact same thing she was. "I had to check it on the flight, you see, and I just wanted to make sure it survived…that none of the instrumentation is off kilter. Seems to be in working order so…yeah." She forced another smile at Greg.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that everything is in working order. With the room and your telescope." He flashed another grin. "If you _do_ need anything, don't hesitate to pick up that phone and dial '0'. Have a good night."

* * *

"Ya know, on TV, you always got that guy that jumps over tha sofa," Murphy droned, examining the aftermath of their handiwork.

"An' then ya gotta shoot 'em fer ten fuckin' minutes, too," Connor breathed with a smile.

The twins glanced at each other and then quickly crossed to the sofa, peeking over the back of it.

Murphy clapped his brother on the shoulder as he stared down at the body there. "We are good," he grinned.

Connor nodded. "Yes, we are," he agreed happily. He leaned closer to the body and the smile he wore began to fade. "Murph…does that look like an entrance wound or an exit wound?"

"Hmm?" Murphy leaned down to where Connor was pointing. "That's an entrance wound, definitely," Murphy confirmed, pointing at the smaller of the two holes. "But that," he said, pointing to the larger, gaping wound, "looks like an exit wound. An' way to fuckin' big to be from us," he muttered as an afterthought.

"Exactly," Connor agreed, licking his lips. He looked up to Murphy and then up to the windows that circumvented the room. Standing, he moved to them and began pulling the curtains aside, peeking behind them. When his boot trod over glass, his suspicions were confirmed and he glanced to Murphy. "I don't think we were tha only ones who crashed the party," Connor droned.

Murphy cocked an eyebrow and glanced down to Connor's boot, which was gently kicking the glass shards aside. "What tha fuck, man," he muttered, before glancing to the now empty window casing. He scanned the buildings, but that shot could have come from one of a hundred places. "Who tha hell would be gunning for these bastards?"

"Hired gun?" Connor shrugged. "Look, it doesn't matter. We did what we came to do an…" He trailed off as his eyes fell on a briefcase sitting on the bar top. "Now…what d'ya suppose is in that case?" He took off for it, shoving Murphy aside to get to the case first.

* * *

"Greenly, how many bodies did you say there were?" Agent Paul Smecker called out as he sauntered through the Copely Plaza Presidential Suite that was now a crime scene.

"Eight," Detective Ted Greenly called out. Smecker paused, sneaking a look behind the couch and then turned and cocked his eyebrow at Greenly. The detective immediately back pedaled. "No – _shit_! I didn't see that one. Nine! Nine!"

"While Greenly's getting coffee, does anybody else want anything?" He waved to a nearby CSI officer and pointed to the body behind the couch. Pulling a pair of gloves from his case, Smecker knelt down next to the body. Blood soaked through the wool of his suit pants, but he barely noticed. He was too focused on the two holes in the dead man's chest. "Exit wound," he mumbled to himself as he fingered the larger of the two, digging his index finger into the meat. He heard the CSI officer make a disgusted sound and shot him a disbelieving look. Smecker then focused on the other hole; it was decidedly smaller. "Entrance wound." He motioned for the CSI officer to help him turn the body over.

Smecker frowned at the entrance wound that matched the gaping hole in the chest, and then felt along under the couch until his hands closed over a spent slug. Quickly glancing up, he noticed that the CSI officer was too busy fretting over the fresh blood staining his shirt. Smecker curled his fingers around the slug and stood, slipping it into an evidence bag. Then he approached Detective Neil Duffy.

"So, Duffy, got any theories to go with that…tie?"

* * *

Later that night, Smecker sat in his apartment, going over the reports from the CopelyPlaza massacre. His phone rang and he picked it up, his attention wavering between the voice on the other end and the file in his hand.

"Agent Smecker? This is Dr. Morrissey down at the precinct. I've had a chance to look at that ninth body. You're right, the man was shot by two different guns. The shot through the back came first, as that would have pitched him forward. The second shot took him in the chest, sending him back over the couch."

Smecker sat up, setting the file aside. "You sure about that?"

"Yes sir, I confirmed with Davis on the CSI unit."

"Thank you, Dr. Morrissey; is there a contact number for Davis?" Smecker wrote it down and hung up, and then called Davis.

"This is Agent Smecker. I just got off the phone with Dr. Morrissey with regards to CopelyPlaza."

"Ah, Agent Smecker, I thought I might hear from you. You sitting down?"

Smecker lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair. "What did you find?"

"That slug you found at the scene is a fifty-calibre. Now, there are several types of rifles that use that size, both rapid fire machine guns and sniper rifles. According to the report, the shot came in from _behind_ the guy, and he was found near a shattered window. I think we're dealing with a long distance shooter here."

"So we're looking for two guys with Desert Eagles and a third with a sniper rifle," Smecker summed up. "Why, then, would the sniper hit only one target?" Smecker mused out loud.

"Maybe they got the guy they wanted?"

"No, no," Smecker answered, flipping through his notes. "The guy behind the couch was Anton Popov. He was a little fish compared to the other guys."

"Could have been personal," Davis continued.

"Could have been," Smecker mused, "but not likely. No, I think the sniper was aiming for the Fat Man."

"Then they're a shitty shot," Davis pointed out.

"Are they? Not if they were interrupted unexpectedly…" Smecker trailed off and pulled out a map of CopelyPlaza and the surrounding area and spread it over his desk, covering everything else. "What other buildings are around the plaza?"

"Sir?"

Smecker was already running a computer search. "Shit, there must be at least fifty businesses within a two block radius…Davis, thank you for your information. I don't think I have to tell you that this goes no further than this phonecall."

"Uh, yes sir," Davis replied. "Have a good night."

Smecker hung up with out another word. "Restaurants, galleries, hotels…hello, gorgeous, what is this?" He picked up the phone and dialled Duffy. "It's Smecker. Yes, I know it's late. No, I don't care that your wife has to work in the morning. Get Greenly and Dolly and meet back at CopelyPlaza. There's something we've overlooked."

* * *

"All right," Smecker began once everyone was assembled. "That," and he pointed to a corner room on the 17th floor of Copely Plaza Fairmont, "is our crime scene." He swung around and gestured to the Westin Copely Hotel. "And there is where our third shooter was sitting."

"Wait a second – _third_ shooter?" Greenly asked haughtily.

"Yes, Greenly. That ninth body you missed?" Smecker reminded him. "_Two_ bullet holes. One came in from the back through a window at that hotel. I want a manifest of every guest that registered on this side of the hotel. Floors twelve to twenty should do it." He looked at Greenly expectantly,

Greenly looked put out but remained silent, and trudged into the lobby entrance with Dolly, leaving Duffy outside with Smecker.

"So, are we thinking this is someone working solo?"

Smecker shook his head at Duffy's question. "I thought it might have been. But these meetings are kept hush-hush. There's no way that one person without any connections would know that nine of the Russian Mafia's top members were meeting at CopelyPlaza in that exact room."

"Someone working on the inside?"

"Too easy." Smecker shook his head. "No, I think whoever took them out is on the opposition's payroll. The Italians, maybe."

"Or the Irish," Duffy pointed out.

Smecker peered at Duffy closely. "You telling me that the Irish Mafia is getting that powerful? I thought they were small time."

Duffy made a face and shrugged. "Well, that's how it used to be. Lately, though, things have been heating up. A lot of talk about Boston being an Irish city. Territorial pissings, as it were."

By then, Greenly and Dolly had returned. "Okay. We've got a total of thirty-eight couples that checked in within the last twenty four hour period," Dolly announced, handing Smecker a list.

Smecker looked over the list and sighed. "All right, get a couple of patrol men out here to start questioning. I want names, ages, occupations, length of and reason for staying, got it?" He handed the list back to Dolly.

"What about you?" Greenly piped up.

Smecker placed his hands on his hips with a dramatic flair and batted his eyelashes at Greenly. "Oh, don't you worry about little ol' me. I have to go se a man about a gun."


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N : If you thought the cliffy on Chapter 23 was harsh, I've got a doozy in store for you here...warm thoughts of Reedus love wrapped in Flanery arms for everyone (especially pitbullsrok!)._

* * *

They must have sat in the bar for two hours. Dark, corner table, strong beer for both of them, glass of water for Wren.

"What the fuck happened up there?" Donahue muttered, staring back over his shoulder at the relatively empty bar.

"You tell me," Wren muttered. Something definitely wasn't right. She'd felt it last night but hadn't thought that the reason for her uneasiness would be due to another hit on the _same_ person at the _same_ time. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it, the scene unfolding like one from a bad action movie. There was no way that was planned; those two idiots had pure, dumb luck on their side. It pissed her off; they weren't professionals by any stretch, and yet they'd barged in on her territory.

"I'm going to the bathroom." She began to walk away from the table but at the last moment turned and shouldered the rifle case.

"Run into a lot of trouble in public bathrooms?" Donahue joked.

Wren said nothing, merely shot him a wry smile, and headed into the washroom.

As the door closed behind Wren, Donahue reached for his beer, and choked on his breath as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

"Ryan Donahue?" A Boston PD badge was flipped open under his nose.

He slowly looked up, finding he was flanked by two plain-clothed officers. "I might be," he answered slowly.

The cop with his badge out grinned and stowed the badge in his jacket pocket. "Someone downtown wants to have a word with you."

Donahue glanced about the bar, his eyes cutting to the hallway where the washrooms were located. He caught a quick glimpse of Wren and had enough time to shake his head imperceptibly. It wouldn't do them any good if both of them were hauled downtown. He shrugged the hand off of his shoulder and stood, snagging his jacket. "You wanna tell me what this is about?"

"Please, Mr. Donahue, if you'll just come with us, we'll explain in due time."

* * *

Wren's heart was in her throat. She'd been about to walk back into the bar when she'd noticed two men hanging around the table she was sharing with Donahue. One of them was holding something out in his palm for Donahue to see. Wren had been in the presence of enough cops over the years to know a badge flash when she saw one. She had frozen, and only when Ryan had given a small shake of his head did she step back into the bathroom. She counted to sixty and re-entered the bar. Donahue was gone, and so was his jacket, and she moved quickly to the exit. There was no sign of him on the street. According to the plan, they were supposed to head back to Monaghan's home in Waltham after the hit, report, and await further details from the second team who would be monitoring the police bandwidth.

She'd never been one to follow rules. Donahue was in custody; Monaghan and the rest of the Black Irish would know soon enough. But Wren could disappear for a while and call it self-preservation. She doubted that Donahue could be kept long; he probably had only a few black marks on his record, _if_ that. He still had his cell phone; she would wait for him to contact her that way. She wandered two streets over, slinging the rifle over her shoulder, and hailed a cab. She instructed the driver to take her to Southie.

* * *

Ryan Donahue sat in Interrogation Room Seven, staring at the clock. He'd been in there for the better part of an hour and still no one had come in to ask him any questions. He stood and paced the floor, pausing at what he knew to be a two-way mirror, and made a few faces for the boys behind it. Finally, after another twenty minutes, the door opened and a man in his mid-forties stepped in. He certainly wasn't dressed like the other detectives he'd seen in the station on his way through. The man before him wore an expensive suit, had fancy shoes, and ran a hand over his coiffed hair.

"I'm Special Agent Paul Smecker. Organized Crime." Smecker sat down and opened the folder he was carrying and gestured to the seat across from him. "Please, have a seat." He read from the file for a few more moments. "Want to tell me what Colm Gareghty's head of security was doing down town tonight?"

"I was having a drink with a friend."

"Hmm," Smecker replied, disinterested. "And are you aware of the happenings at CopelyPlaza earlier this evening?"

Donahue narrowed his gaze at Smecker. "What do you think?"

Smecker tossed the file aside and leaned forward, sizing Donahue up. He stood then and wandered to the mirror, dropping the blind and turning off the camera. He looked back to Donahue. "I think that the boys back in Washington should have told me that one of their own was working the Irish from the inside, _Agent_ Donahue."

"What, and blow my cover?" Donahue asked with a grin.

Smecker smiled and shook his head. "Jesus, this gets better and better. How long have you been working under them?"

"Going on two years now."

"Impressive," Smecker commented. "Now tell me really: what were you doing downtown tonight?"

Donahue shrugged. "I had a job to do."

"And did that job involve a high-powered, long distance rifle that was fired from, oh, I don't know, the Westin Copely?"

Again, Donahue shrugged. "I'm not about to give everything up just because some fruitcake from Organized Crime prances in and starts asking questions."

"Excuse me?" Smecker snapped.

"You heard me." Donahue held up his cuffed hands. "You wanna take these off?"

"I'm not sure I do," Smecker admitted.

"Look. I've hit a goldmine, as it were. I'm going to have enough evidence to put Gareghty _and_ Monaghan away for a very long time, and I'm close to bringing down someone we thought disappeared from radar almost five years ago."

Smecker looked Donahue up and down. "Well, I don't want to be the one who sabotaged an undercover job for a fellow agent." He tossed Donahue the handcuff keys. "But I am interested in this third party you mentioned."

"Aren't we all? I'm not saying anything else. There's too much at stake. I'll make you a deal: you can have Gareghty and Monaghan for your scrapbook, but I'm taking the bird down myself."


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: How are we all doing after that last bombshell? Ready for some smut? Good, me too. There isn't any smut here, but it's coming. That's what Murphy said. Anyway, it took writing a challenge peice for Valerie E Mackin to get my Murphy smut - Smurph...er...smuff...um...whatever - Murphy smut muse back in working order. I'be been busy developing plot without the right doseage of naked MacManus bits, so you can thank Valerie for the smut when it happens. And special thanks to pitbullsrok who is my go-to for all things Reedus. She has been busy sending me pics and articles and even - sigh - videos of Norman Reedus that have been a huge help. Or hinderance, accoriding to my husband. Anyway, who else is watching The Walking Dead tonight? That was such a stupid question..._

* * *

Despite its rather dilapidated appearance, and the fact that it lacked hot water more often than not, Wren had always viewed the MacManus flat as a place of sanctuary, somewhere she felt safe. Staring up at it now, however, it seemed different. Cold. Closed off. She shook her head, chalking up the feeling to having just done her first long distance job in a very long time. There was something about sniping that was impersonal and removed, which could be a blessing or a curse. Quickly checking the street left and right, she crossed, and slipped into the illegal housing unit and began the climb to the fifth floor.

The door was hanging off of its hinges – more than it usually was. The yellow police line fluttered in the breeze coming from the open fire escape and Wren's heart wedged itself in her throat as she stared at, a beacon of caution. Slowly, she crept to the door, cocking her ear for any sign of movement inside of the flat. There was none, save for a slow trickle of water. The lights coming in from the street were of little use in the darkened space and she cursed before ducking inside and finding the fridge, swinging the door open. The cool, blue-white light of the fridge lit up the immediate space around her, and what she saw didn't look good.

There was blood all over the floor, concentrated around the area that had once housed the toilet. She crouched down for a closer look and noticed the boot treads imprinted in the rusty red of the dried stuff; those boot treads looked to be about a size twelve work boot. She followed them as they staggered out back to the hallway and up to the fire escape window. From there, the trail went cold, but she stuck her head out anyway, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, even from this height. Of course, she saw nothing, and she moved back into the apartment.

The wall next to the door was bare; the nail that held the rosaries now useless as the trinkets had vanished. She sighed in some relief; she knew the only time Murphy took that rosary off was to shower, and even then she had to sometimes remind him, the weight so familiar to him. She knew Connor was the same way. The boys were alive; at least, they were when they left the place. There were no chalk outlines on the floors denoting dead bodies.

She left as quickly as she had come, her mind racing. There had been a struggle, for certain, and something that involved the toilet. And because said struggle had involved the MacManus brothers, her mind came up with a handful of scenarios from the mundane to the ridiculous. She was betting on one of the crazier notions she had. Pulling the phone from her pocket, she checked the time. It was after eleven already, and there were no messages from Donahue. Her mind flashed to Pam. Pam would know what was up, maybe not the whole story, but she couldn't imagine Connor not contacting her within the last forty-eight hours. Shit, the twins might even be holed up at her place, but that was a long shot. Pam didn't take any shit and she sure wouldn't allow those two bozos to drag her down into anything that was illegal in the slightest. The last thought made Wren pause. She didn't want to drag Pam into her shit, either.

"Fuck it," Wren muttered, dialling information on the phone. When she had Pam's number, she dialled quickly, and the call was answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

Wren paused at the anxious quality of Pam's voice.

"Connor?" Pam asked after a moment.

"It's Wren."

There was another pause on Pam's end. "Wren? Holy _shit_, what happened? Where are you? Are you okay?"

Wren closed her eyes against the frantic questions spewing forth and talked over Pam. "Pam – _Pam_!" When she had the attention of the female on the other end of the line, she continued. "I'm fine. Where are the boys?"

"What? That's all you can say, 'I'm fine'? Fucking _hell_, Wren, you're obviously _not_ fine; you got into a car with Mickey fucking Monaghan!"

"Pam, if you don't calm the fuck down, I'm going to hang up. I said I'm fine, for now, but I'm fixing to blow my top if you don't tell me what happened to the boys. I stopped by the flat and there was blood all over the place, Pam. What the fuck is going on?"

"Chekov and his little friend paid the boys a visit the next morning," Pam snapped. "That was Connor's blood, probably – he's okay. Got handcuffed to a toilet. Murphy was threatened at gunpoint in the alley."

Wren rubbed her eyes and stopped outside of a café, leaning against the building. "Are they with you?"

Pam snorted. "_No_. They spent last night in jail…"

"They were arrested?" Wren hissed.

"No. No, they opted to stay there. They weren't charged with killing them, it was in self defence."

"Wait, what?"

Pam sighed and gave Wren the short version of what transpired the morning after St. Patty's Day. "Anyway, Rocco gathered their belongings and took them down to the precint last night. Connor called this morning; he just called again about an hour ago, saying he was at Rocco's and they were 'handling some shit'. Connor's words, not mine."

"Ah, fuck, this is not good," Wren growled, more to herself than anything.

"Come over," Pam blurted out suddenly. "Murphy's a wreck, he'd never admit it, but he's shit at hiding his feelings. If they call again, you can talk to him."

"No, I can't come over," Wren answered. "It's not a good idea. Have you got Rocco's number?"

Pam hesitated. "Yeah…but if Connor answers, he's not going to let you talk to Murph."

"Shit, he's got a hate on for me, doesn't he?"

"Can you blame him?" Pam uttered shortly. "Shit is fucked up all across the board, Wren. I'm ready to tear my hair out. You're keeping secrets, and the boys are keeping secrets…I'm in the fucking dark about _everything_."

"What do you mean the boys are keeping secrets?"

Pam sighed. "I just know they are. They didn't want me to come and get them from the precinct, they didn't stop by after they left custody and Connor was adamant about me staying in tonight, too. It's not like him, Wren. The guy lives and breathes through his cock; we haven't had sex Sunday."

Wren had to chuckle at that. Connor was, for lack of a better term, perpetually horny. He was almost always trying to get Pam horizontal, no matter where they happened to be. "I'm sure he's doing it for a good reason," Wren replied. She hoped they were. "Look, if Connor answers, I'll just hang up, okay? Please, give me Rocco's number."

Pam reluctantly rattled off the digits and Wren promised to contact her the next day before hanging up. She pocketed the phone and headed up the street, stopping at a newsstand to buy a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She crossed at the corner and headed towards the Italian district of Southie. She stopped outside of a cemetery and dialled Rocco's number.

"Lo?"

Her breath caught at the low, rough tone of Murphy's voice. "Murphy," she breathed automatically.

There was a pause and a bit of shuffling before his voice came back cautiously. "Wren?"

She sighed at the sound of her name on his lips and nodded, even though he couldn't see her. Swallowing thickly, she found her voice once more. "Oh my god, _Murph_."

He merely breathed into the phone for a moment. Then, he came back, sounding very far away. "Are ya okay?"

"Yeah," she answered immediately. "Yeah, I'm okay. I…saw the flat…are _you_ okay? Pam told me what happened."

"Yeah. We're fine," Murphy answered. He let out a long breath. "I can't talk fer very long."

Wren shut her eyes and bit her lip. "I need to see you."

"I can't," Murphy croaked. He cursed under his breath. "Shit, Wren. It's not good – the timing. Somethin's come up."

He sounded strange, and Wren frowned at his voice. "Tell me."

"Can't," Murphy answered. "Not right now. Look, I gotta go." His breath caught the last few words he was going to say and left the silence hanging.

Wren took the plunge. "_Ya lyoblyo tyebya_."

There was another pregnant pause before Murphy responded. "Aye." The word was choked out. "V'got ta go."

He didn't say it back, but his voice was thick with it. The line went dead a few seconds later and Wren stared down into the phone. Something was definitely off. Five days ago, he'd demanded answers she wasn't ready to give, and now she had practically begged to see him, to have a chance to explain and he threw her secretive ways back in her face. She didn't know if she had a right to be hurt, but she was anyway. Murphy and his brother were always honest and upfront. It was one of the things that drew her to him initially. Now he was giving her the same song and dance she had given him. Her hand began to tremble.

Then it began to vibrate. She glanced back down at the phone and saw that she had a new text message:

_Sorry for the hold up. Pick up changed to Slatterly's on Beacon Street. Twenty minutes._

_- Ryan_

She knew the place, knew that it was at least a thirty minute walk. She'd have to run.

* * *

Murphy stared at the cordless handset in his hand, his thumb still jammed on the 'end' button. His teeth dug into his bottom lip as Wren's voice echoed over and over. She'd sounded so small on the other end, and more emotional than he'd every heard her before. It caused his own voice to thicken. When she'd told him she loved him, something inside of him had busted open and left him raw. He wanted to say it back, badly, but his tongue wouldn't make the words. He merely acknowledge her and then hung up. Fuck, he needed a drink.

"Oi, who was dat?"

Murphy whirled around in the bedroom, where he'd slipped off to take the call, and found Connor staring at him curiously.

"Uh…pizza guy," Murphy uttered. He tossed the phone to Connor.

"Was it a private conversation?" Connor chuckled.

Murphy flipped him off. "You two fuckin' idiots were bein' so loud in dere, could hardly hear meself, let alone him." He nodded to the phone. "Gonna be at least another twenty minutes. Traffic accident on the Forty."

"Feck, I'm starvin'," Connor groaned. He cocked his head back out into the other room. "Roc's back wit' tha beer."

"Thank Christ," Murphy muttered, shoving past Connor.

"Lord's name," Connor called after him as he followed him down the hall.

* * *

"Anybody _you _think is evil." Rocco looked from Murphy to Connor, disbelief heavily lacing his words.

"Aye," the brothers answered in unison.

The Funny Man rubbed his eyes and shook his hair from his face. "Don't you think that's a little weird? A little…_psycho_?"

Connor blew out a stream of smoke and thought about Rocco's words for a moment. "Ya know what I think is psycho, Roc? It's decent men, with loving families, they go home every day after work. They turn on the news and you know what they see? They see rapists, and murderers, child molesters. They're all gettin' outta prison."

Murphy interjected. "Mafiosos, gettin' caught with twenty kilos. Gettin' out on bail the same _fuckin'_ day."

"N'everywhere, everyone is thinkin' the same fuckin' thing: Someone should just go an' _kill_ those mutherfuckers," Connor continued.

"Kill 'em all," Murphy added darkly. "Admit it. Even you've thought of it."

Rocco sat back and processed the twins' monologue. "All right. I've got one for ya. Hell, I've got a list a fuckin' _mile_ long, mob bosses, underbosses, wiseguys, you name 'em, I know 'em," Rocco announced, his heart pounding rapidly. He sneered with sick pleasure, liking the way the twins were thinking. He narrowed his eyes at Murphy. "Tomorrow night." He chuckled, shaking his head, rubbing his hands together. "This is perfect: tomorrow night, there's an unauthorized bare knuckle event, right? Tommy Callahan is fightin' Gin Rickey Reynolds."

"Tommy Callahan is small fish," Connor muttered, but he cut his eyes to Murphy. Where Callahan was, Monaghan was sure to be lurking, and if Monaghan was around, there was a good chance Gareghty would be there, too.

"I'm not talkin' about the Irish," Rocco sputtered. "The _Italians_, man! The fuckin' _Italians_! Some Don from Genoa is coming to town and he's going to be at the fight tomorrow night! Agosti, Giovanni Agosti." Rocco looked back and forth from Murphy to Connor and back to Murphy. "He's Yakavetta's connection to the old country, right? He gets a lot of his money and his manpower from his dealings with Agosti. Kill Agosti, you knock out half of Yakavetta's dealings in this city alone, not to mention New York, Chicago…" Rocco trailed off, frowning at the brothers' silence.

"Thas' pretty heavy, Roc," Connor stated slowly.

Rocco waved away the obvious concern in Connor's voice. "Come _on_! If anybody can do it, it's you two assholes! Jesus Christ, you just took down eight Russian underbosses in under thirty seconds!"

Murphy's jaw snapped as he blew out a perfect smoke ring. "Nine," he corrected, sliding a glance in Connor's direction. He leaned forward and looked closely at Rocco. "Tell us more about Agosti."

Connor elbowed Murphy and switched to Gaelic. "_It's risky, Murph. Yer not considering this on the off chance ya might see Wren, are ya_?"

Murphy scowled. "_I'm worried about the girl but I've still got my wits about me. This is exactly what we've been entrusted with, Connor. Killing evil men. Roc says this guy is evil, so we kill him._" Murphy shrugged and looked back to Rocco. "Where's tha fight?"

* * *

"What did the cops say?" Wren muttered in the back of the town car that had picked her and Donahue up.

Donahue shrugged, glancing out the window. "Nothing much. Didn't have anything to hold me with. Mostly just wasted my time." He glanced to Wren and gave her a questioning look. "You okay?"

She nodded, the weight of the rifle heavy in her lap. "Yeah. I mean other than having a job stolen out from under my nose, I'm fine."

Donahue raised an eyebrow at her acidic tone. "Kinda territorial, don't you think?"

"I got upstaged a pair of fucking amateurs, Donahue."

The car fell into silence for a little while.

Donahue broke that silence ten minutes later. "Where did you go?"

"What?" Wren swung her gaze to Donahue.

He shrugged. "While I was being held…where did you go? You didn't stay at the bar," he pointed out.

"No, I didn't. I, uh…took a walk. Bought cigarettes. Cleared my head." Ironically, her head began to pound.

"Did you talk to anyone?"

Wren rolled her eyes. "Like who?"

"I dunno, you had a phone on you…did you try calling MacManus again?"

"No." Not right away, she didn't. "I maybe stopped by their flat. It was deserted." She glanced back to the lights of downtown Boston. "I don't know where they went, or if they're even still in the city." She looked down at her hands and laughed. "Good riddance, right? I mean, now I can finally put one hundred and ten percent into my job," she snarled. Leaning forward, she poked Patrick in the shoulder. "How much longer till we're back at the house?"

"Gonna be another thirty minutes," he droned, turning back to the traffic.

She pushed the gun case from her lap, tucking it between her and Donahue. "Wake me when we get there."

* * *

_A Russian Translation:_

___Ya lyoblyo tyebya:_ I love you (finally! Took her long enough to say it!)


	27. Chapter 27

Murphy scanned the warehouse and felt as if he'd been thrust back into Ireland, into one of the many pubs he used to frequent with Connor when they were teenagers. This was a bigger scale, of course, but the noise and the smells were familiar. Voices barked in harsh accents, predominantly Irish, but Italian, Russian, Spanish, and even a few Asian twangs were detectable. It smelled like bodies, it smelled like beer, and blood, canvas, sawdust, and the electricity of the crowd was palatable. He actually couldn't believe that after five years in Boston, this was the first bare-knuckle bout he had attended. He spotted Rocco flagging him down from his spot near the north end of the warehouse and he crossed through the crowd. Every time a blonde head moved into his line of vision he paused, craning his neck, trying to see the face. It was never Wren. He glanced back to where he'd left Connor, near the Italian side of the audience, perched a few rows back from Yakavetta and his honoured guest, Giovanni Agosti.

"He's the one with the black ponytail," Rocco muttered as he turned and wandered to where beer was being sold for five bucks a can. Bottles had been banned several years ago after a riot had broken out. More than a few hundred faces still carried those scars around Southie. Murphy followed close behind and took the beer that Rocco handed to him. "Is Connor okay?"

Murphy nodded, flicking his eyes back over the crowd. He narrowed in on the Irish contingent, counting of Monaghan, Wren's brother, Nate, and of course, Colm Gareghty. Wren, however, was not with them.

"Are _you_ okay?" Rocco muttered from the corner of his mouth, keeping his eyes on the crowd but feeling Murphy's tension. The two of them were almost as close as Murphy and Connor, and Rocco could usually tell when Murphy was agitated, despite the darker twin's ability to keep his emotions in check.

"M'fine," Murphy grunted back.

Rocco shifted uncomfortably. He didn't want to be the one to tell Murphy, but shit, the kid needed to get his head into the situation at hand. "She's here," Rocco mumbled into his beer.

"What?" Murphy snapped, rounding on the Italian.

"I saw Wren. She's here. But she's sitting in with the Italians."

Murphy's blue eyes snapped back across the warehouse and found Connor. Connor slowly ticked his head to the right and Murphy followed his brother's line of vision. Rocco was correct; Murphy would know that pale shade of blonde hair anywhere. Wren was definitely here, but she was sitting a row behind Yakavetta, and a dark-haired, olive skinned man sat next to her. They seemed fairly cozy, too, as his arm was on the back of her chair and he constantly leaned into her neck. Murphy's teeth clenched as he watched the play of emotions on Wren's face, flirtatious and coy.

He glared back to Rocco. "The _fuck_ is she doin' wit' th'Italians?" Murphy growled.

Rocco put his hands up defensively. "Hey, hey, I don't know, all right? I haven't been back to the house since yesterday morning." He gestured to where Wren was sitting. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Murphy glanced back to Wren and narrowed his eyes. "Well, _something_ is goin' on, Roc. She's in with the Irish, that much was clear the other night." He paused as Wren shifted in her seat and then stood, leaning over the dark-haired man for a moment. "What is her game?" he muttered to himself.

"Hey," Rocco growled, catching Murphy's arm. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

Murphy opened his mouth but Rocco cut him off with a swift shake of his head. "You can't go over there, man! You'll blow it! I know you're aching for this chick, but you hafta let it go, man. She's bad news…"

"_Don't_ tell me what I hafta do," Murphy growled. He snapped his eyes back to Wren, who had stood with the man next to her and moved out of the seating area and down into the pit near the fighters. "I need ta get her alone, aye?"

Rocco frowned. Murphy appeared to be talking more to himself than anything, and whatever he was planning did not sound good. He needed to get to Connor somehow so Murphy could be reasoned with.

"This is bad, Murphy, really bad," Rocco stressed. "Let me get Connor, okay? Just…don't move. I'll be right back." He caught Connor's attention and motioned for him to follow. The foolproof plan that Connor had developed hadn't taken into consideration that Murphy may do something foolish. A heavy weight settled in Rocco's stomach as he moved to meet Connor.

* * *

"Okay," Donahue breathed, once they were out of earshot from the Italians. "So far, so good. Agosti likes what he sees," he added carefully.

Wren paused as she watched Tommy Callahan throw a few practice punches from his side of the ring. Her blue eyes swung to Donahue. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

Donahue looked uncomfortable, but he pressed on. "That's the reason you're here, Wren. Well, other than this," he muttered, drawing the side of his coat back enough so that she could see one of her Berettas stashed in a hip holster. "Agosti likes beautiful women." He cleared his throat. "He likes to _watch_."

Wren's eyes went comically wide. "Wait, _what_?" she hissed. "Are you for real?"

Donahue shrugged and looked back out into the gathering audience. The fight was going to start soon; the plan was to take Agosti out no later than the fifth round. Callahan was a shoe-in; he could hold off finishing the fight, which he would normally do in the first round, long enough that Wren would be able to isolate Agosti and eliminate him. "Look, I didn't want to tell you before now because I knew you'd react like this."

Wren shook her head. "How else am I supposed to react?" She cursed and glared back up at Donahue. "Just what exactly does he want to _watch_?" she asked darkly.

"Well, you are posing as my girlfriend."

"Oh, fuck me," she groaned.

"Hopefully, it doesn't come to that."

Wren narrowed her eyes sharply. "I don't know whether to be relieved or insulted."

Donahue rubbed a hand over his cropped black hair. "Look, the way you're dressed, I don't think it's going to be too hard to distract Agosti. A few kisses, a little light petting, the guy will probably be panting up a storm."

Wren arched a dangerous eyebrow. "The way I'm dressed?"

Donahue nodded, taking half a step back to look her up and down. "I didn't get a chance to tell you before: you really look amazing in a dress."

* * *

Murphy had never seen Wren in a dress before. And as far as dresses went, the one hugging her petite frame was as feminine as they came. It was white, setting off her pale complexion and wheat-blonde hair beautifully. The gold details picked up the gold highlights in her hair and set fire to her dark blue eyes. The satin was cut tight; he wondered briefly if there was room under that dress for underwear. She walked gracefully in pale gold satin heels and her hair was smooth and sleek, hanging just to her shoulder blades. Fuck. She looked good. She looked _really_ good.

"Tha feck are ya doin'?" Connor hissed as he appeared at Murphy's side. He shot his hand out, clipping his twin across the back of his head. "Stop thinkin' with yer dick, jack ass, an' start thinkin' about keepin' an eye on the target!"

Murphy rubbed the offended spot on his head and shot Connor a glare. "Oh, feck off. Come on, she looks feckin' amazin'," he droned, gesturing to Wren who stood about fifty feet off.

Connor slapped Murphy's hand down and glanced around the crowd, making sure they weren't being watched. "Aye, she does," Connor agreed with a growl. "But don't go blowin' this ta shit because she looks god in a dress. We're not here fer her."

"I know," Murphy hissed back, turning back to Connor. "I know why we're here." He looked to Rocco, who stood a few feet behind Connor. "Thanks," he uttered gruffly. He forced a grin to let Rocco know that he appreciated the reality check from his brother. Murphy sucked in a deep breath and nodded. "Okay. Let's do this."

* * *

The bell rang, signalling that the fight was going to start. For an illegal racket, Wren was surprised at the organization of it all. There were bookies, judges, two referees, and a ring announcer whose raucous voice was carried over a booming sound system.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Saturday night!"

The crowd went wild, a mixture of Southie's roughest and toughest dotted with the glitz and glam of well-off mafiosos, Boston socialites, and city officials. Everyone, Wren knew, had something to hide, and that was what brought all of these people together. Maybe it was the scent of blood and iron that sought them out, maybe it was a lust for greed or violence or danger. Whatever the reason, the cheers only increased in volume as the fighters took to their respective corners. A hush fell as the announcer continued his call.

"This first fighter comes to South Boston by way of Buffalo, New York. He stands five feet, seven inches tall, weighs in at two hundred and ten pounds. I give you Richard 'Gin Rickey' Reynolds!"

Wren watched the opposition dance in his corner, throwing a few punches, grinning and chatting with his trainer who finished off the final tape job on the fighter's wrist. Reynolds was a wrecking ball of a man, short and powerful like a bulldog, with huge shoulders and biceps, and quick feet.

"Our champion needs no introduction," the MC announced, "but I'm not getting paid to look good." There were several laughs and a few whistles thrown at the announcer, and he went on. "Standing at six feet tall, weighing in at one hundred and ninety-three pounds, ladies and gentlemen, your fighting Irish! Tommy 'The Natural' Callahan!"

The roar was deafening as almost everyone in attendance stood and cheered. Callahan bounced on his side of the ring, leaning over the ropes and chatting with Monaghan and, to Wren's annoyance, Nate.

She felt an elbow gently prod her ribs and her attention flew to Donahue at her side. "Stop giving those guys the death glare. You're here with me, remember? As far as we're all concerned, you don't know the Irish."

Wren sighed and sank back into her seat, effecting a rather impressive pout.

"That's good," Donahue growled. "You look just like the spoiled girlfriend of a wealthy arms dealer."

"Go fuck yourself," Wren huffed. She stood suddenly and took a step around Donahue.

"Where are you going?"

She stared at him incredulously. "You have a real problem with me going to the bathroom, don't you?"

Donahue pursed his lips. "Don't take too long."

Wren smiled wryly. "Wouldn't dream of it."


	28. Chapter 28

"Nice dress."

Wren froze before the flame could touch the cigarette and threw a hasty glance over her shoulder. Murphy leaned against a nearby stack of crates, his arms cross over his chest, his blue eyes sharp and calculating. On instinct, she smoothed a hand down the white satin and shrugged. "It's a bitch to move in."

Murphy snorted, pushing off of the crates. "I'll bet," he muttered. He took a step forward and then another, effectively herding Wren away from the prying eyes of the crowd and towards a darker back section that housed whatever the warehouse was used for during the daylight. "Bet ya can't even fit a pair o'panties under dat," he snarled lowly.

His tone was aggressive, as was his expression, and she sucked in a cautious breath as her shoulders bumped against the shipping crate Murphy had backed her into. "Murph," she breathed, staring up into his face. She couldn't think of anything else to say. Despite the obvious temper he was failing at tamping down, she was dumbstruck by seeing him. His voice last night had sparked memories but seeing him in the flesh dredged up memories as early as the week before. She felt like she hadn't seen him in years.

He moved closer, so close that she put a hand out on his chest to impede further movement. Licking her lips, she felt her breathing turn shallow and her throat dry up. "What are…"

His lips crashed into hers, interrupting her next words. Her hands caught his head, clutching his hair as she fought for dominance in the kiss. As his taste flooded her mouth his scent, that one of soap and leather and generic laundry soap, filled her lungs. Deep, throbbing pleasure ignited between her thighs as her hips found his like a magnet. His palm slid down her ass and gripped her roughly. "Murph, wait," she tried again, breaking her mouth away and gasping.

"Don't have time ta wait," he uttered, and his hands glided down the smooth satin of her dress to the hem and began the rather difficult process of shoving it up the length of her thighs. "Christ, did ya paint dis on?" he growled, remarking on the snug fit. He caught her mouth again in a rough kiss, swallowing any protest and stroking her tongue with his. She tasted so fucking sweet after so fucking long, and he couldn't wait to sink between her thighs. When her firm breasts collided with his chest, he changed tactics, and seized them, cupping them firmly and grinding slow circles into her nipples with his thumbs.

She didn't think she'd feel his hands on her again, at least not so soon. She had dared to dream that after all of this was over maybe they could come to some sort of semblance of a relationship, but here, in the middle of everything, it was all too easy to let him have his way. She hissed as his teeth scraped over the tender skin below her ear, and though his lips brushed over the spot, his whiskers stung sweetly. Her nipples stung and ached as he toyed with them. Between her thighs, she was aching frantically, and the more she thought about him driving into her, the faster her breath came. She needed to get his jeans open, needed to touch him, to feel him beneath her hands and deep inside. Pushing her lips back to his once more, she slid her hands inside of his coat, roaming over his chest and shoulders before flattening on his belly and catching the waistband of his jeans.

He deepened their kiss, and his teeth clicked against hers as he hefted her up against the crate and pinned her there. One hand delved between her thighs, and he whimpered just a little when he felt the barely there scrap of cotton between her legs. It was damp, soaked through the moment his tongue touched hers and he grunted harshly as he snapped it off of her body and shoved it into his pocket. His fingers returned briefly, sliding painfully quick up the slick length of her, setting off a loud, breathy cry. Quickly, he angled his head over hers and swallowed the sound. She sucked at his tongue and clicked his belt open, and her hand dove down and encircled his hot, solid cock. She pulled from his mouth and stared up at him, panting with him as she began to stroke him quick and rough.

"Fuck," Murphy sighed, his hips rocking into her caress of their own accord. The quick swipe of her thumb over the leaking tip made him cry out sharply, and he scowled down at her before pulling her hand away. "M'still feckin' pissed at ya," he growled, reaching between them to line up his shot.

She nodded and tugged sharply at his hair. "Good," she grunted. He gave her a cheeky grin and plunged; her voice choked off as he filled her completely. Her eyes squeezed shut and her forehead dropped to his shoulder as her body vibrated. No time was wasted; he began to pound into her immediately, and she fluttered furiously around his thickness, trying frantically to keep up with him. Her heart thudded in her ears and Murphy's breath was warm and harsh against her neck.

"Ah, feck, girl," he snarled, catching her mouth once more, dragging her lip between his teeth. "So good," he groaned. "Feel so good 'round me."

Every other bone in her body had gone numb from pleasure. She was deliciously full of him, his thickness rubbing her raw and ragged, his scent surrounding her as his kisses landed on swollen lips and stubble-burned skin. "Murph," she gasped out with a choppy breath. Her legs tightened at his hips and she clung to the back of his neck and his shoulder, fucking him back just as hard. "Mother fucking son of a _bitch_," she hissed, rising to a moan at the very last word. "Fuck, Murphy, don't fucking stop. Going to come," she gasped.

He huffed. "M'not stoppin'," he amended. Urged on by her words, he pushed deeper, rocking into her body hard enough to make the crates she was propped against begin to rattle. Fuck, she was hot. An inferno, even, and wet, so much that it was practically dripping down her thighs. With the way she gripped and squeezed at his length, he knew she wouldn't last long. Snapping his hips sharply, he ran down his own orgasm, crying out hoarsely as he came in a rush. He set her off, and she constricted around him, and then flooded, hot and wet, around his length. Still, he continued to thrust, and she whimpered with every movement, unable to stop until finally she whined, shaking her head. "Oh, god, _Murph_."

Reluctantly, his hips slowed, and his movements smoothed out until he was barely rocking against her, still shuddering at the pulsing in his balls. His breathing tapered off, and when he could, he spoke: "Hail Mary, full o'grace," he purred, canting his hips sharp and slow once more, rising up onto his toes as he did. He growled low and long when she spasmed around the sensitive length of his semi-hard state. Fuck, he could go at her again and again right then.

Her toes curled and then went lax, and she felt her muscles begin to relax where he held her against the wall. "You gotta put me down," Wren croaked.

"Not yet," Murphy mumbled lazily, stroking his fingertips down the backs of her thighs.

Defeated, she shrugged and clung to him, closing her eyes as her chin rested on his shoulder. His arms felt amazing, wrapped tight around her, and the feel of his hair beneath her lips was soothing. Deeply sighing, she squeezed his cock, still lazily throbbing within, sending little ripples of hot pleasure through her entire body.

Somewhere, a bell rang three times, sharp and shrill. There was a roar from the crowd, positive and negative sounds mingling in the din, and Wren stirred in Murphy's arms. "Was that the bell?" she hummed dreamily.

"Aye," Murphy nodded his head from where it rested against her throat.

She blinked, trying to force her brain back into coherence. The bell meant something. "What round is it?" she asked.

Under her arms, Murphy shrugged, and she felt him start to straighten, his hands pulling gently at her legs as he eased her down. "Third? Fourth?" When she was on her feet, she stared up at him and almost melted at the slightly shy look in Murphy's eyes. His passion drove him, she knew as much, but sometimes it blinded him until after the moment. "I found ya at the end of the second," he offered, a faint blush tingeing his cheeks.

"Oh," Wren nodded, leaning back against the crates with a sigh. She frowned as Murphy's warmth left her, but grinned as his hands tugged her dress back into place. Her eyes drifted shut. They shot open seconds later. "What?" she hissed, standing straight, albeit a bit shakily.

Murphy frowned, and took a step back. "What?" he replied, clearly confused with her sudden turn in demeanour.

"What round is it?" she asked, quick and low. Her hands tugged at her dress and reached to smooth her hair back down. She'd have to find a bathroom, and quickly, and make sure she didn't look like she'd just been screwed, and screwed well.

Murphy blinked. "Third or fourth…" he trailed off. _Shit_. What had Rocco said? No later than the fifth round? "Fuck," he muttered, hauling his jeans back into place.

She cast him a wary glance, wondering at his sudden urgency. Footsteps began to thunder around them as the crowds descended from their seating to use the bathroom and buy more alcohol and place bets. The two of them worked quickly and silently, righting the remainder of their clothing while shooting each other quick, heated glances.

"We need to talk," Wren uttered lowly as she closed the space between them. Her hand caught his and squeezed, bringing his focus to her.

"Aye," Murphy nodded. His gaze wandered past her shoulder and he saw Rocco lingering nearby, gesturing wildly. He quickly looked back to Wren. "Gotta go," he murmured before softly pressing his lips to hers.

When she opened her eyes seconds later, he was gone, and she looked towards the milling crowd out in the main hall of the warehouse. She spotted Donahue, coming straight towards her, his jaw set firm, his mouth in a grim line. She moved to meet him.

He scooped her arm into his and wrenched her around, hauling her to his side and walking her towards one of the many alcoves that sold beverages. His lips were hard against her ear. "We've got a problem."

* * *

"We've got a feckin' problem, Murph," Connor hissed as he rejoined his brother and Rocco. The lighter MacManus studied his darker half for a moment before pointing at him with an accusatory finger. "What were ya doin?"

Murphy shrugged. "Nothin'."

"Don't feckin' lie ta me, Murph." He peered closely at his brother. "You were screwin' Wren back there, weren't ya?"

"So what if I was?" Murphy sniffed.

"Jesus Christ…"

"Lord's fuckin' name," Murphy growled.

"Ya couldn't keep it in yer pants for five fuckin' minutes?"

"It's been over a week!"

Connor's eyes widened at his brother's admission. "Really?" He sounded genuinely concerned. "Fuckin' hell, Murph, didn't ya…I dunno, take care o'it?"

"Aye, but it's not tha same!"

Connor contemplated this. "Aye, lord's truth," he agreed.

"Uh, I hate to interrupt you two morons, but we've got bigger issues than blue balls," Rocco barked.

"Aye, don't know, Roc, after a week, those would be some fairly big blue balls," Connor mumbled.

"Aye," Murphy nodded, making the sign of the cross. "Hail Mary."

"Full o' grace," Connor replied.

Rocco heaved an aggravated sigh. "I think Wren's in trouble," he bit out carefully. His dark eyes swept from one MacManus to the other.

Connor snorted as he swept aside his coat and checked the weight of his guns which was slowly becoming familiar. "Aye, we already covered dat."

Rocco shook his head frantically. "No, I mean, I think she's in trouble here _right fucking now_."

Murphy paused, the slightly heady rush still coursing through his body suddenly turning icy and sluggish. "What?"

"That's what we came to tell you; I overheard a few of Monaghan's men talking. Look, I had no idea Agosti was like this but…"

"Like _what_, Roc?" Murphy growled. "What are ya feckin' talkin' about?"

"Agosti is a sick muther fucker," Rocco explained tightly. "Some of Yakavetta's boys were talking 'bout the 'tight little blonde with the arms dealer' an' how if Agosti was going to watch, they hoped he filmed it."

Murphy's eyes narrowed as Rocco's voice grew more and more acidic. "Watch _what_, exactly?"

Connor gave his brother a pointed look. "What do ya _think_?"

The darker twin shook his head. "She wouldn't…"

"Aye, she might not, but it doesn't matter, if Agosti is under the impression that she _will_."

"That guy she's with," Murphy mumbled.

"The Italian," Connor prompted.

Murphy snorted with a wry grin. "He's not Italian." He glanced at Rocco for confirmation.

"Hey, all I know is that he's an arms dealer from Toronto, or Montreal, or some shit like that."

Murphy chuckled darkly. "No, he's not. He's fuckin' Irish. That's the guy that pulled Wren to the car. Jesus, they're going to get Agosti alone to try and fuckin' kill him."

Rocco frowned at the incredulous tone in Murphy's words. "Isn't that what we're trying to do?"

"Exactly!" Murphy spat. "But they're using Wren as fuckin' bait!"

* * *

"The job is fucked," Donahue cursed, spinning Wren back around so he could tower over her. "Oh wait…maybe that's just you."

Her face flamed and she glanced quickly left to right, hoping they were out of earshot.

"Don't bother pretending like nothing happened. The next time you decide to fuck MacManus, make sure there aren't any compromising people around." He nodded back to the arena and where they had been sitting. "One of Agosti's guards saw you. Shit, you were barely out of view…"

"Is this _you_ being jealous? Or the arms dealer?" Wren snapped. "I'm not your fucking property, Donahue."

"For this purpose, you _are_," he hissed back. His fingers tightened on her arm and she felt herself being shoved backwards towards yet another shadowed alcove.

"What are you doing?" she growled.

Donahue quickly glanced to the right and then behind her. "Trying to keep from getting killed. Follow my lead."

She wasn't prepared for the rough hand on her shoulder or the one that snagged her jaw and forced her to look at up at him. When she stared up into his eyes, there was an apologetic flash through the dark irises, and then Donahue's entire façade changed.

"You just don't learn, do you?" he growled sharply.

Wren sensed a presence behind her – a few, actually, and she quickly glanced to see two of Agosti's men that had accompanied him from Italy, and Agosti himself, standing and watching the exchange.

"Damon," she heard herself whisper. It was the name Donahue was using as a cover. "Nothing happen…" she was cut off as Donahue's fingers tightened on her jaw.

"Don't fucking lie to me again," he hissed. He pushed her back into the shadows.

She had a feeling where this was going – the only way to scrape together some semblance of their plan was to play off her supposed infidelity as a habit that 'Damon' took great pains to break. It wasn't their original plan, however, and Wren's heart began to beat a little faster. This was unknown. She didn't know how this was going to unfold.

This time, when the crates hit her back, she felt a cold trickle of fear. Donahue loomed over her, so much darker than Murphy, and his black eyes flashed dangerously, skittering down to look pointedly at the his open jacket. He looked back to her and gave her the faintest nod. _Take the guns_, he silently told her, _and shoot_.


	29. Chapter 29

"Did you see which way she feckin' went?" Murphy growled from behind Connor. They were charging back through the milling crowd, going against the flow of traffic headed back to the seats.

"No, but Roc had a line on Agosti's two men. They were scoping out some spot near the west bar," Connor muttered. He could feel his twin's agitation. "This could get ugly," he pointed out. "I mean, if we hafta shoot these muther fuckers in front of her…"

Murphy shook his head. "Don't really care 'bout dat, Conn," Murphy admitted. He reached into his coat and closed his fingers around the grip of his Desert Eagle. "M'not gonna let her be fuckin' bait."

Connor stopped and spun around to face his brother. "We take Agosti out tonight, and we make sure Wren isn't harmed. We don't stick around for the after party, got it?"

Murphy nodded, his blood coursing wildly through his veins. It was mirrored in Connor's flashing eyes. The place was crawling with Italians and it wouldn't do them any good wait and see who noticed Agosti's absence in the next round.

* * *

"_Mister Durante,_" Agosti began in lilting Italian. "_It seems as though your little dolcezza has a thing for other men_."

Donahue's gaze never wavered from Wren's and she saw a hint of pain flit over his face.

"_I know_," Donahue replied smoothly over his shoulder. "_It's a habit I'm trying very hard to break_."

A ripple of laughter fluttered around Wren and she held her tongue between her teeth. Donahue cocked an eyebrow at her. _What are you waiting for_?

"_You wouldn't mind, perhaps, if I watched you break her? It's hard to find decent entertainment these days and while I enjoyed the boxing match, I find that this may be more in line with my taste_."

"_Please, do stay. If she hasn't learned her place by the time I'm finished with her, perhaps one of your men can take over._"

There was another round of cruel chuckles and although Wren didn't understand a word being spoken around her, she knew the malice and the intent clearly enough. Her hands wound into Donahue's jacket and she pressed her palms flat against his flanks. "Please, Damon," she murmured, as her hands slid over the handles of the Berettas.

* * *

"Christ, this won't be an easy shot," Connor muttered from where he and his brother crouched.

"We can't wait any longer, Conn," Murphy growled back. They had both heard the exchange between Agosti and the man Wren was currently being cornered by. Even if it was a ruse, it didn't look like it would fare well for Wren. And Murphy was fairly certain that he couldn't take much more of Wren pawing at that guy like that, for show or not. He tugged his ski mask into place. "In an' out, yeah? Can't let her get a good look at us."

"Aye," Connor nodded, pulling the wool down his face. He grinned, knowing that Murphy would know he was smiling; and Murphy's eyes crinkled a moment after, returning the smile. They clicked the barrels of their guns together, as if offering a toast. "_Slainte_," Connor offered.

They moved into the shadows, slinking behind Agosti's two men, intent on taking them down first. Connor fired a clear shot into the skull of the man on the right, and the body dropped uselessly. The mechanical _zip_ of the suppressed shot made the second man turn, but Murphy beat him to the punch, delivering two bullets to the back. Then they turned their sights on Agosti.

* * *

Donahue heard the shots and froze. Wren's eyes widened and then narrowed. "Fucking _amateurs_!" she growled hotly, shoving her hands into his shoulder holsters and drawing both Berettas. She kneed Donahue in the gut, making him suck in a breath and double over. When he was clear, Wren flashed a smile in Agosti's direction and then glanced at the two ski-mask wearing morons behind him. "Oh, you've got to be fucking _kidding_ me!" she hissed. "He's _mine_!"

Behind the ski masks, Connor and Murphy paused, watching as Wren sent the dark-eyed Irishman down. Too stunned to move, they merely stared as Wren fired two shots, point blank, into Agosti's skull without hesitation, and then aimed her weapons on them.

"We should go," Connor mused in a strained voice, already backing away.

"Agreed," Murphy nodded quickly.

"You're the same assholes from Copely!" Wren snapped. "You ruined my job that night." She fired, narrowly missing Connor's head.

The lighter MacManus glared at her. "Calm the fuck down," he bellowed, dredging up a flat Midwestern accent. "We both had the same goal – just like right now!"

"You think I fucking care?" she fired another shot and Connor's eyes bulged as he heard Murphy hiss sharply and swear.

"Let's go, man," Murphy growled from the shadows, clutching his thigh. The bullet had grazed him, but it was deep, and was bleeding quite profusely.

"She fuckin' shot you!" Connor yelped, his brogue slipping. He sneered behind the ski mask and sent a bullet in Wren's direction.

"I know!" Murphy roared, reaching out and grabbing his twin by the shirt and yanking him back. "Let's _go_!"

Wren skittered after them, kicking her heels aside and stepping into the shadows.

"_Wren_," she heard Donahue croak from behind her.

She glanced back over her shoulder. "You're fine," she shrugged. "I didn't hit you that hard."

Donahue grimaced and shook his head slowly. He managed to turn onto his side with stiff limbs. A bright bloom of sticky, wet red was blooming near his hip, and the stain was getting larger by the second.

"Fuck," she uttered, falling to her knees in front of him. "Were you shot?"

He bared his teeth, glared up at her. "Yes," he growled, grunting again. "But either the guy was trying to kill me and has shitty aim, or he wanted to cripple me." He winched sharply. "Shit. I feel like my hip is shattered."

"_Fuck_," she snapped this time. "Okay. Don't move."

"Thanks for the advice," he droned through clenched teeth. "My phone is in my pocket."

She dove towards him, her hand skirting into the hip pocket of his pants that he wasn't laying on, and he rocked with the movement, howling again. "Ow! God_dammit_, Wren! Take it easy – no, the other pocket." He suddenly broke off and his eyelids fluttered. "Shit," he murmured, almost bewildered.

"Donahue," Wren growled, watching him with wide eyes. Shit, he was pale – too pale, almost sickly yellow with the overhead warehouse lighting. Suddenly, his body sagged back, his breath shallow.

"Ambulance," he slurred, his head rocking to one side. "Phone in my pocket. Loosing a lot of blood."

The other pocket – the one he had been lying on? It was covered in blood, and Wren swallowed the sudden flood of salt through her mouth. A ragged bullet hone was directly above the pocket opening, and she could see blood still pumping at an alarming rate. It was close the femoral artery, and acting quickly, Wren jammed her hand into the pocket, fished around, and yanked her hand back as soon as her fingers curled around the phone. She fished it out, her vision filled with Donahue's blood-drowned cell phone. She had to wipe the screen off of on her dress, and her fingers slipped clumsily along the keys as she hastily dialled for an ambulance.

Lifting the phone to her ear, her eyes scanned over him. She needed to stop the bleeding, and so she cradled the phone with her shoulder and yanked his suit jacket off of his good side. The sleeve of his shirt went next and she wadded it with her hands. As she went to press it tight to the wound, the phone clicked in.

"_9-11 Emergency, please go ahead._"

She frowned at the voice. The _ambulance_. Donahue had asked her to call an ambulance. Not get Monaghan, or Callahan, or one of the other boyos. Call an _ambulance_.

"_9-11 Emergency, is there someone there?_"

The voice of the lady working dispatch echoed mechanically down the line. She jammed the 'off' button and set the phone down. She yanked open his tie and managed to hitch it around the injured side between the legs, and secure the makeshift bandage made from his sleeve. He mind raced as she worked. _Why would the head of Gareghty's security want an ambulance – and no doubt the cops, judging by the surrounding body count – instead of using their own guy on the inside?_

As she pulled back, her hand brushed against something beneath his shirt, higher up on his flank, beneath his arm. Tearing open the shirt, she parted the sides and narrowed her eyes at the small transmitter box of a legal wire system taped to Donahue's side. A thin wire traveled up to a mic taped to his chest. She tore it, and the transmitter, off viciously, a little satisfied at the mumbled grunt of pain he heaved. On the backside of the transmitter, a serial number, and the unmistakable seal of the FBI were stamped into the metal of the casing.

The box and mic clattered to the ground as if they had burned her, and she sprung back, standing and looking frantically about for the rest of a team. The crowd over head were still hollering their distaste or triumph over the fight outcome, and they were beginning to leave their seats as they did. She glanced back down to Donahue.

She couldn't leave him – not like this. She dialled 9-11 again and this time, when the dispatcher came on, Wren didn't hesitate. Donahue was a cop, and that meant he had a pretty good idea who she was. Gareghty had nothing on her anymore. "Someone's been shot at an illegal boxing match in Southie." She rattled off the address of the warehouse and the approximate location of Donahue. She ended the call as she was asked her name, and she crouched back down beside Donahue.

"Ambulance is coming," she muttered as she set his phone back on his chest. "You're a Fed?"

He winced. "It's not what you think," he croaked with a weak shake of his head.

She held up the transmitter box and gave it a little wave. "I think if it looks like a duck and it walks like a duck, it's a duck."

"No, Wren," he pleaded.

"Can't stick around," she said as she stood. Her head tilted as she looked down at him. "You understand, don't you?" Her mouth lifted in a wry smile and then she scooped up her heels. As she caught sight of the bloodied hem of her dress, she found his discarded jacket, having fared not too badly. Her legs were soaked with blood; they'd have to be dealt with. Wrapping Donahue's coat around her body, she ducked out into the swelling crowd and cut across the flow to the bathroom, her head down, not meeting anyone's eyes. For some reason, it was empty, a rarity with women's bathrooms, but she had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She threw the bolt, locking the door, and got to work at the sink.

The blood was heavier than she thought, and she had built up quite a pile of bloody, damp paper towels. At the mirror, she twisted her hair up, securing it with a pen from Donahue's coat pocket, and then slipped the coat on. It almost went around her body twice, but she shoved her hands into the pockets and stepped into her heels. She wasn't likely to be noticed if she made her exit stealthily. Opening the bathroom door once more, she eyed the flow of the crowd and stepped into it as it passed.

As the east entrance became closer, she filtered close to the edge again, and slipped back out of the crowd, and straight into someone standing right there. Her eyes flew up into the infuriated face of Papa Joe Yakavetta himself.


	30. Chapter 30

She felt herself freeze, but as her brain came around, her body was already in motion, turning and dashing back into the crowd, shouts of protest drifting up as she pushed people aside. Behind her, there were angry shouts in Italian, and then English – orders to follow, to shoot, and quickly. Wren wove in and out of the crowd, ducking around concession and between seating. Her shoes were off in seconds, and she began to run, shedding Donahue's coat and hiking up her dress to just under her ass so that she could run faster.

Her legs moved quickly, and as she ducked around a corner, she watched another two of Yakavetta's thugs emerge from somewhere and grab at her. One man caught her arm and managed to slow her momentum, while the other caught her as she was swung around. The first man pinned her, and she twisted and kicked against his hold. The second man approached, grinning as he reached into his suit jacket.

He wielded the Beretta with flair, more or less showing it off to Wren. She watched his casual movements; these morons clearly didn't know exactly who they were dealing with. As he approached, she kicked out again, high and sharp, and sent her heels into his face. Beneath her heels, his nose crushed in with a sickening noise, and the thug holding onto her loosened his arms as he watched his partner rear back in agony. Her elbow flew back and around, driving into his throat, and he doubled over, choking and letting go of her. She dove for the pistol the first guy had dropped when his hands went to his broken nose, and her hands closed around it as she felt the weight of the guy she'd elbowed in the throat land on her, sliding her knees into the rough concrete.

His fist snared her hair and he yanked her back, snarling every insult he could think of as he reared back and flipped her over. Crushing her ribs with his weight, he sneered down at her as he brought his hand back and then connected the palm to her cheekbone. Her head rocked numbly to the side, bells ringing, and her tongue bleeding from where she'd bitten into it. The shock of the blow caused her hands to open, and the gun clattered to the ground next to her head. The man on top of her grinned and slipped one hand around her throat.

He began to squeeze, just enough to show intent, and when her vision blurred, he knew to ease off, though her breaths were now raspy and short. She heard a metallic clicking and then saw the flash of light against shiny steel. He produced a butterfly knife, his smile widening as he flicked it into order, and he waved it at her, much like his partner had done with the gun.

"Let's see what Agosti is missing, eh?" he sneered before reaching down between them. The blade pressed against her thigh and she thrashed, feeling her skin split as the knife cut her. Fabric tore and the constricting satin around her hips became looser. She batted him with her fists, and dug her blunt nails into his scalp and jaw, tearing at his face while she spat curses up at him and bucked, despite the blade against her skin.

Her nails caught him hard on the throat and he reared back, uttering 'bitch'. Quickly, he jammed the knife against her throat, scoring the skin there, and then caught one of her vicious hands with his free one. Hetwisted the arm up and over her head, and slammed it down into the concrete. "Not so tough without a gun, are ya, cunt?"

"Jesus, Dom, what are you doing?" The man with the broken nose croaked from where he still sprawled. "Papa Joe said…"

"'Papa Joe said,'" Dom mocked. "Danny, shut the fuck up, all right? Papa Joe ain't here right now." He turned his attention back to Wren. "More the pity," he chuckled.

"For you, maybe," Wren growled back.

Dom smirked down at her. "Give me your best," he challenged, leaning in close.

Her head snapped up and she collided with his brow bone with a satisfying _crack_. Dom called out, shocked, and fumbled with his now bleeding eyebrow with the hand that held the knife. Wren twisted, dislodging him, and sprawled out on her belly. The gun was still within reach – barely – and she shot forward on her hands.

Behind her, Dom growled, and she felt his elbow dig into her kidney as he threw his weight into her again. The air squeezed out of her lungs in a painful rush and her hair was snared in a powerful fist. "Don't know when to quit?" Dom muttered before driving her head down into the concrete below her. She managed to turn her head to the side, so that her brow took the impact of the blow, but it still sent a shock through her skull. Blood welled and dripped into her eye, skewing her vision. Her fingers brushed the steel of the gun, traced the contours of the trigger and curled around the handle. She felt hands roughly grab at her and flip her to her back once more.

"Dom," Danny warned, kicking back on his heels in an attempt to stand. "Don't…"

"Danny, go make yourself useful, huh? Find Vincenzo and tell him we've got a little bird caged back here." He glanced away from Wren and shot a threatening glare in Danny's direction.

"Dom!" Danny shouted again.

Dom's triumph melted from his face and he slowly turned back to the woman laying beneath him. The barrel of a gun was aimed straight for his face. Dom tried another grin. "She doesn't have the…"

The bullet tore out of the gun with an ear-splitting _bang_ and cut off whatever words Dom would ever say again. Entering between the eyes, his skull exploded out the back and Wren was showered with bits of bone and brain matter. The Italian slumped forward, a perpetual look of shock on his face, and Wren barely had time to duck to one side or risk being pinned underneath two hundred pounds of dead weight.

She wiggled out and away from the now dead Italian and took a few breaths before remembering the guy with the broken nose. Scrambling to her feet, she brandished the gun towards him, where he had managed to slide up a stack of crates and was staring dazedly at his dead partner.

"Holy shit," he breathed, glancing to Wren with wide green eyes.

She gave him a sympathetic smile. "First day on the job?"

He nodded. "Pretty much."

She nodded with him. "Then I won't kill you," Wren announced. "But I can't have you following me, either." She frowned then, and sent a bullet into the man's foot.

"Jesus _Christ_!" he screamed, collapsing once more and grimacing at the hamburger-like appearance of his foot.

"Lord's name," Wren snapped icily. "You'll live," she reminded him. "I suggest you don't remember which way I went." Clutching the gun, she skipped back into the darkened corridors of the warehouse and moved off to the south entrance.

This one was clear, at least clear of Yakavetta or his men, and she dashed out into the crowd in time to hear the approaching sirens. Took them long enough. She snorted and then took off across the street, ducking into the night.

* * *

The realization that she had a gun in her hands didn't hit her until she was a good six blocks away. She swore sharply and ducked into an alley, quickly wiping her prints off of the handgrip with the bottom of her dress, and then ditched it in a dumpster. Her dark blue eyes scanned the shadows and the alley's mouth; her breath caught in her throat as sirens neared and the flashing red and white of a police cruiser lit up the brick walls of the surrounding buildings. The car sped past, and the screaming siren died in the night, and Wren swallowed thickly before edging back out to the street. She found the street signs; Cornerbrook and Eighth, putting her about three blocks from the former MacManus flat, ten from Rocco's, and a good twenty minute run from her loft.

But Pam's place was smack dab in the middle of it, hanging on the good side of Belfast Road. Should she risk it? The last thing she wanted to do was to put Pam in danger, but it was quickly becoming a reality that anyone who had _anything_ to do with Wren was in danger of being dragged down in some capacity. Her heart lurched at that thought, and the thought of Murphy. If Agosti's men had been able to make out _her_ in the shadows, then they would have no doubt been able to see Murphy, too. Was he in danger? And Connor? And that circle came back to Pam.

She cursed under her breath as she weighed her options. There was little doubt in her mind that Monaghan and Gareghty were aware of Donahue's situation by now, and they were probably in the process of sending out a search party for her. She wouldn't risk going to her loft. Obviously the former MacManus residence was out of the question and she had never really felt at ease around Rocco – too much nervous energy on his part. The longer she thought about it, Pam's place seemed to be the most viable option. She had no idea what time it was; the tiny thing that had passed as a purse and carried her cell phone was still stashed under her chair in the warehouse. Would Pam even be home?

* * *

The MacManus brothers and Rocco had turned up at Pam's apartment, Murphy slung between Connor and Rocco as he limped from the bullet graze. Glaring hotly at Connor for putting her in the situation, she had to let them in – if any of her neighbours decided to see what the commotion in the hallway was about, she didn't think she'd be able to come up with a viable story for a bleeding Irishman and his brother and best friend taking up her doorway. She'd ordered Murphy be set up on her couch and when Rocco was holding a thick towel at Murphy's wound to help slow the bleeding, Pam had curled her fingers around Connor's forearm, digging her nails into the skin until he swore at her.

"Connor, you have to tell me what's going on!" Pam hissed sharply as she herded him into her small bathroom and shut the door. She began digging around under the counter for her first aid kit.

"Pam…"

"No, Connor, I mean it," she interrupted, shoving the metal box into his hands. "Your brother is bleeding all over my vintage chintz couch from a bullet graze." Her eyes flashed gold and dangerous. "No more lies. No more secrets. Tell me now."

Connor swallowed and nodded, hearing the edge in her voice that brooked no room for argument. "When Murph's patched up, aye?"

She nodded, a bit reluctantly, but wasn't about to argue over Murphy's wellbeing versus her demands. It wasn't an argument she'd win, anyway. "I'll meet you in the living room."

She disappeared into the kitchen and then joined the men in the next room, a pair of scissors in her hands. "All right, we need to cut his jeans off above the wound. I don't want to move him, he'll start bleeding again." Kneeling at his side, she reached with the scissors and stopped as her eyes took in the blood soaked pant leg of Murphy's jeans. Her eyes danced to his face, but his eyes were focused on the ceiling. She laid a gentle hand on his chest. "You okay?"

He nodded, blinking, but didn't look at her.

"Ho-kay," she breathed, making the first cut to the stiff, sticky denim.

She worked quickly, as best she could, cutting his pant leg off past mid thigh. The wound was a good half inch into the meat of his leg, making a small gouge in the skin and layer of fat. It had grazed the muscle, but it didn't look too damaged. "The bleeding is slowing down," she said, but she still frowned. "I'm not stitching this; there's no way." She shook her head and looked at Connor.

"Cauterize it," he said simply, settling his hand over Murphy's heart.

"Are you _nuts_?" she groaned. "Cauterize it with _what_?"

"I don't fuckin' _know_, I've never done dis befer!" Connor snapped back.

"Un-fuckin'-believable," she drawled, her accent bubbling to the surface.

"Can't we just…I don't know, slap some gauze on it or somethin'?" Muprhy asked hopefully.

"What about an iron?" Rocco suddenly chirped from his place at the floor, still holding the towel against Murphy's leg. "Ya know, to cauterize it. Heat it up real good on the stove and _sssssss_."

Pam glared at the Italian and Connor snorted with disgust. "Really, Roc? A fuckin' _iron_? Are you fer real?"

Rocco shrugged. "I don't see you suggesting anything."

"Are we goin' ta be a while?" Murphy suddenly inquired from where he was prone on the couch. "Cuz I could use a drink if I've got a moment."

"Aye," Connor nodded. "Yer not bleedin' out, brudder. Hold on, dere's a bottle of Jameison around here somewhere." He flicked his blue gaze to Pam and she nodded her head to the cabinet behind him. He retrieved the bottle and unscrewed the cap, holding it out for Murphy to take a drink first.

"Tanks, Conn," Murphy sighed, upending the bottle once, swallowing, and then sending it up once more. He passed it off to Connor, who took another healthy swig. He reached out to hand it to Rocco, but Pam intercepted it.

"Fuck it," she growled, swallowing down the burning liquid. She choked a little and shoved the bottle into Rocco's hands. "Okay, maybe the iron?" She said after a moment.

Murphy whimpered a little and snatched the bottle from Rocco's hands, gulping it down steadily.

"Aye, I guess," Connor shrugged, grimacing at the impending pain in store for his twin.

Pam nodded and stood and started for the linen closet when a sharp banging on her front door made her freeze. Her eyes grew wide as she stared at Connor; Murphy's dark head came up from the couch and Rocco turned his attention to the door.

"Who," Connor breathed.

"Tha fuck," Murphy continued warily.

"Is that?" Rocco finished up.

Pam counted the three men in front of her, and herself, trying to deduce a reason. The banging on the door started again. Shit. She sucked in a breath and quickly crossed the room. She tore the door open and felt her stomach drop.

Wren stood on the other side, blood soaked dress hiked close to her hips, her shoes missing, and her throat and face spattered with dark, thick blood.

"Holy shit," Pam breathed.

"I need to come in. Please," Wren said lowly, shifting on her bare, numb toes.

Pam continued to gape at Wren. Why did people think her place was a good place to come to all covered in blood and injured?

"Pam?" Connor called out from behind her.

Pam started from her daze and glanced back over her shoulder.

Wren frowned. "Is that Connor?" She muttered. She moved forward. "Murphy's here?"

"Wren, wait," Pam protested, pushing the smaller woman back.

Murphy shot up from the couch. "Wren?" he called out, having heard her name.

Wren craned her head over Pam's shoulder. "Shit, Murph?" She frowned at his prone form and squeezed past Pam and into the living room. "What the fuck happened?" she gaped. Her eyes took in the cut away pant leg and the blood-stained towel Rocco was holding to Murphy's thigh. Connor was standing, bouncing on his toes, a pair of pistols slung into a shoulder holster over his black turtleneck. She narrowed her eyes, and spotted a matching harness and guns piled at the foot of the couch, along with Murphy's jacket. Stalking forward, she snatched his coat up and dug into his pockets, her fingers curling around thick wool. She pulled out a ski mask, and looked at Connor first, and then to Murphy.

"Holy _shit_," she muttered, looking between the brothers once more. "Those two _morons_ were you guys?"


	31. Chapter 31

Pam looked from Connor and Murphy, to Wren. "What are you talking about?" She quickly turned back to Connor. "Connor, what's she talking about?"

"S'all right," Connor muttered, his blue eyes hard on Wren. "I'll explain, it's just…" he glanced back to Pam and gave her a pleading look. "There are more pressing matters." He turned back to Wren and growled. "This is _yer_ fault."

Wren scowled at Connor. "I'm not the one who busted in on someone else's job," she snapped back.

"Don't tink fer one second dat's an excuse – ya could have killed him!" Connor's face began to redden as his voice rose.

"Connor," Pam said gently, tugging at his sleeve. She was ignored.

Wren crossed the carpet and stared up into Connor's face. "I told you before, I'm an excellent shot, Connor – I. Don't. _Miss_. If I wanted him dead, he'd be fucking dead."

"So I should be relieved?" Connor asked incredulously.

"Connor!" Pam said again, this time more sharply. She gestured hastily at Murphy still laying on her couch, tennis matching the back and forth between Wren and his brother. "Pressing matters," she grumbled as a reminder.

Wren cocked her head and contemplated Murphy's prone body on the couch. "So, what's the plan?" she asked, glancing to his brother.

Connor shrugged stiffly, looking at Rocco, and so Wren turned her attention to the Italian.

"Um," he shrugged, shaking his hair from his eyes. "Uh…we should..I dunno…maybe clean it first."

"Jeez, are you pre-med, Rocco?" Wren commented snidely.

Rocco shook his head dumbly, although it went unseen as Wren's eyes were focused on the towel and it slowly lifting from Murphy's leg. "Pam, get some clean towels and some warm water," she ordered. She heard the brunette sigh, but ignored it, and looked up into Murphy's face. The dark twin was watching her closely, his breathing short but steady. "How are you doing?" she asked softly.

"Ya fuckin' shot me," he muttered hotly.

"Yeah," Wren nodded slowly. "But I didn't know it was you."

"Aye, that makes it so much better," Murphy pouted. He hissed sharply as Wren poked the skin around the hole in his leg and he frowned petulantly. "What are you gonna do?"

"We're going to have to sterilize it." She wrinkled her nose at the wound and then looked back up to Murphy. "It's kinda gross," she shrugged. She focused on the bottle in his hand and plucked it from his fingers, despite his protests. Cocking her head to the side, she tossed a shot down her throat and then swiftly poured a healthy amount over the wound.

Murphy hissed and his leg stiffened as a blistering stinging sensation ripped through the muscle. "Ya could have warned me first!" he whined.

"What part of 'we're going to have to sterilize it' didn't clue you in?" She rolled her eyes and found a clean section of the already bloodied towel and pressed it to the gash again. "Now, Nurse Rocco, what do you suggest?" She slanted her eyes in the Italian's direction.

Rocco shifted nervously under her sharp gaze and spluttered. "We…uh…should probably cauterize it?"

"Unless you're handy with a needle and thread?" Wren asked icily.

"Uh…not really," Rocco chuckled.

"Right. Well, neither am I." She snatched up one of Murphy's Desert Eagles from where the pair was ditched.

Connor drew his own gun and pointed the barrel to Wren. "What the fuck?" he hissed.

Wren snorted, not even bothering to look at the lighter MacManus. "Relax, Irish." Her hands moved over the gun and slipped the clip. She flicked a bullet out to her palm and set the gun and the clip down on the nearby table. Her free hand went to Murphy's belt and she pulled the obscenely large bowie knife from its sheath.

"What are ya doin'?" Connor growled, slowly shoving his gun back into place.

"Keeping Murphy from bleeding all over Pam's floor." Wren glanced up at the other woman and winked before turning back to the bullet and the blade. She flicked the head out of the casing and nudged Rocco with her elbow. "Move the towel – slowly, Rocco. Want to make sure it's not going to gush."

Murphy shook his head. "No."

Wren sighed a little and glanced back to Connor. "You wanna help me out here?"

Connor grimaced. "We gotta stop tha bleedin', Murph. Ya know it needs ta be done."

With a sullen expression on his face, Murphy finally nodded, shoving back into the couch. "Fine," he grumbled.

"What's the bullet for?" Rocco piped up, perversely interested in Wren's actions.

"Well," she breathed casually, as if speaking of weekend plans, "I'm going to fill the wound with gun powder and light it."

"Are you feckin' _nuts_?" Murphy roared, bucking up from the couch. Connor had the good sense to dive in and shove his shoulders back to the cushions.

"Well, our other option is to take you to a hospital – my guess is you guys are trying to stay under the radar these days?" She shot a glare at Connor from over her shoulder before turning back to Murphy.

"Gimme that feckin' whiskey, Roc," Murphy growled, snatching it as Rocco held it up. "Feckin' girl is gonna end up blowin' me leg off."

"Relax, I've done this before," she murmured as she watched Pam set clean towels and a bowl of water down on the table. It was a half-truth. She'd seen it done. Once. In a movie. Whatever, the theory was sound. "Connor, I need you to hold him down."

"Aye," Connor nodded gravely, still not trusting Wren's plan. He clambered onto Murphy's chest, pinning the broad shoulders with his knees and capturing the long arms beneath his shins. "_Tá mé leat, Murph._"

Murphy nodded, throwing another shot of whiskey down his throat. "_Má tá mé slán seo, tá mé ag dul go bhfuil cúpla focal as a cuid_," he growled back, shooting a hard glare at Wren.

"Okay, Rocco," Wren breathed, averting her eyes from Murphy's steely gaze. "On three. One…two…three."

Murphy hissed and Rocco pulled a face as he lifted the towel. Wren leaned over the wound and inspected it. The whiskey had done a fair job of clearing away the residual blood. The gash was rather deep, and she was suddenly grateful that her aim had been less than stellar. But, the good news was that the bullet had obviously passed straight through, even though it had left a jagged tear in Murphy's tissue. Her fingers moved and held the wound on either side as she upended the open bullet casing and dusted the powder into the gash.

"Someone got a light?" Wren asked.

Three Zippos suddenly clicked open and were shoved in her direction – one from Connor, one from Rocco, and one, surprisingly enough, from Murphy. She took Rocco's as it was closest to her free hand and she glanced back up at Murphy.

"On three again?"

He nodded. "Aye," he croaked, his blue eyes sharp and wide.

"One," Wren murmured. And then she touched the flame to the wound.

A searing sizzle and pop sounded, but Murphy's howl of protest drowned out the sound. Seconds later, smoke rose up and the smell of cooked flesh filled the immediate area. Rocco gagged beside her and Murphy's howl had turned to a string of curses in at least five different languages.

"Jesus _Christ!_" Rocco bellowed. "What the fucking fuck – did you fucking see…"

"Lord's name, Roc," Connor snapped, his eyes never leaving his brother. "Murph – Murphy, can ya hear me?"

"Aye, I can fuckin' hear ya!" Murphy sneered. His body heaved violently. "Fuckin' _hell_, girl, ya never told me yer were a _sadist_!"

Wren quickly doused a fresh towel in water and began wiping away the excess blood. "Oh, relax," she groused. "You didn't lose your leg. You didn't die. A little gratitude might be nice."

"Gratitude?" Murphy roared.

Connor pushed against his brother's bucking torso. "Easy, Murph," he muttered.

"_Gratitude_?" Murphy repeated, exasperated. "Are you outta yer feckin' _mind_, girl?"

Wren rolled her eyes and continued cleaning around the wound. "I just might be," she mumbled. Wadding the towel up, she sat back on her knees and dared to look at Murphy once more. She wasn't surprised to find that he had passed out after his outburst, his head slumped against the arm of the couch, and his mouth slack. Wren turned back to Pam. "Well, that's all I can do. You want to bandage him up?"

* * *

_Some Gaelic Translations:_

___Tá mé leat, Murph_: I have you, Murph

_Má tá mé slán seo, tá mé ag dul go bhfuil cúpla focal as a cuid_: If I survive this, I'm going to have a few words for her


	32. Chapter 32

_A/N: **SPEACIAL THANKS TO PITBULLSROK WHO GENTLY POINTED OUT THAT I HAD POSTED CHAPTER 26 AGAIN! HERE IS THE ACTUAL CHAPTER 32**_

_So, a few of you asked where I got the idea for gunpowder in the wound. It's true, I saw it once on a TV show - it was an episode of Lost. Can't believe it hasn't been used anywhere else! Like I said, the theory is sound! Valerie E Mackin, it's over 15 years of training in martial arts combined with over twenty years of watching action / martial arts films that allows me to block out an action scene...but even then I have to sit and think about it in my head and I do admit that sometimes, I get pointers from my husband who also trains martial arts._

_I took a smattering of Russian history in University, but that was ten years ago and it was only one class on the Russian Revolution (which led to the creation of Soviet Russia) so Wren's origins may be a little off...give me a little bit of liscense, please!_

_Please be sure to check out the author's note at the end!_

* * *

When Murphy woke, it was past midnight. His head was pounding and his mouth was rather dry. In the dim light of Pam's living room, he found Connor perched on a chair next to him, his rosary wrapped tightly around his fist, and his chin resting on his chest.

"Conn," Murphy croaked, reaching a hand out and touching his brother's thigh.

"What is it?" Connor suddenly surged awake and clutched Murphy's hand.

"I need some water. An' I got to take a piss," he added as an afterthought.

"Aye, I'll get it." Connor left and came back with a glass of water. "Can ya make it ta tha bathroom?"

Murphy nodded as he drank the glass down with three huge gulps. "Aye," he gasped, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. Tanks." He handed the glass back and began the very slow process of peeling himself up from Pam's couch. He frowned at his cut-away jeans. "Got sometin' fer me ta wear?"

Connor nodded. "Tink dere's a pair o'me jeans lying around here somewhere. Ya go on. I'll bring em' to ya."

* * *

"Sorry," Wren uttered as she came upon Murphy in the bathroom. He seemed very focused on the tub. "What are you doing?"

Murphy didn't look up, his mind was preoccupied with his current dilemma. "I need a feckin' shower," he answered with a faint hint of bewilderment. "Can't get me leg wet." He shrugged and gestured at the tub. "Got any suggestions?" Though he tried to keep his tone light, he heard the acidity beginning to burn through the words.

She stared hard at him, her eyes boring into his profile. From the set of his jaw and his fists, Wren knew he was being stubborn, refusing to look at her. She'd saved his ass, she reminded him hotly when he'd woken early that morning. _Aye_, he'd drawled. _After ya shot me ass_.

She looked around the bathroom for a moment. "I suppose I could tape you…up," her eyes swung back to him and she was jolted. Finally, he'd turned his eyes on her, but he was staring at her dress, and the blood that had soaked into the fabric.

"What tha _fuck_," Murphy had growled. "That can't be all mine," he said, limping forward and catching Wren's hand. He yanked her into the small space and turned her so that she was facing the light over the sink. Immediately, his blue eyes roamed her body, his hands tugging the fabric aside at her neck, her arms, and thighs. "Were ya hit?" His gaze fixed down, his hands slid up to her face, pushing her hair back and cupping her cheeks.

She hissed and turned away from the touch. That Italian fucker had hit her with an incredibly powerful backhand, and followed it up by rocking her face into the concrete floor. His fingers had sent an aching shock through her, and his eyebrows drew together in concern as he saw he'd slid his thumb over a superficial cut on her cheekbone, and smeared the blood.

"Are ya okay?" Murphy asked thickly, grabbing her biceps and holding her firmly.

She looked up at him closely. "I don't know," she admitted. So many things were happening at once. She'd never expected it all to collide quite like this. "Are you okay?"

Murphy's head shook slowly. "I dunno," he murmured. "I…thought I might lose ya."

"I thought I _did_ lose you," Wren admitted. "I wasn't lying when I said I love you. But we have a lot of shit to talk about, and not a lot of it is good – at least, on my end."

"Aye," Murphy nodded. "I guess I haven't been honest with ya, either." He frowned as his fingers dragged across her hair, dried stiff from the blood in it. "Ya need a shower," he deduced.

"You should go first," Wren shrugged. "I mean, you limped all the way here from the couch."

"Aye, but yer soaked in blood dat isn't _yers_. S'not right, girl, an' ya need ta wash it away. Turn 'round." He was already spinning her, his fingers catching the zipper that started at the back of her neck. He tugged it open smoothly, and shoved the upper portion of the dress from her shoulders and down her arms.

He worked quickly, determined to get the bloody dress of her body, and as he shoved the thing down her hips, his fingers slowed, remembering the cut of her thong only hours before. She shifted at his touch, her breath catching as his fingers stilled. Goose bumps rose along her spine as Murphy's warm, bare chest brushed against her, and the thin cotton of his boxers only enhanced the steadily rising erection that was pressing against her ass.

He knew she felt his cock jammed against her. He could tell by the way she subtly shifted her hips. He forced a step back, and used his foot to drag the dress down from her knees to the floor. The lean lines of her back were relatively blood-spatter free, but when she turned around, her thighs and legs were still streaked with the stuff, as if she'd been able to wipe some of it off. The blood that had soaked through her dress was drying in little patters on her belly and upper thighs, the v between no doubt in the same state. He leaned over then, and slung the shower curtain back, cranking the water on. Steam began to fill the room almost immediately. He turned back to Wren and froze.

She was shaking, head to toe, tiny shockwaves running through her. Hesitantly, he lifted a hand to brush her hair from her face and she stiffened and took a step back. He wouldn't let her get away, and he moved forward once more, until her back was against the counter. His hands came down on either side of her. "Christ, Wren, m'not gonna hurt ya," he muttered, his blue eyes troubled as he looked down at her.

She shook her head. "I know," she said through a shuddering breath. Her thighs pressed together and she winced at the sting there.

Murphy frowned and his eyes swept down again, past where her arms covered her breasts, to her thighs, and he reached, pressing his fingertips to the inside of one knee. "What is it?" he whispered, already prying her legs open.

The cuts from the Italian's knife had stopped bleeding, but that did little to take away from the angry, red appearance of them. They were long cuts, done deliberately, and in an obvious fashion. Murphy swallowed a surge of rage down, closing his eyes. "Did they touch ya?" he muttered thickly.

Her head snapped up and their eyes locked. She shook her head furiously. "No…god, no, they didn't," she answered, her words dying at the end. "I've never…that's never happened…" her eyes shut tightly as she took another breath. "Christ, Murphy, it's never gotten this fucked up before." Tears that she had been holding back began to slowly melt down her cheeks, and Murphy moved then, running his thumbs over them, wiping them, and the blood, away.

"Yer all right," he mumbled, pressing his mouth to the crown of her head. He swallowed thickly as her arms slowly unwound from her body and wrapped around his, her palms shockingly hot against his back. He felt her tug him forward, tightening her hold, and his own arms slung around her shoulders, pressing her to his chest until there was no space between them.

"I want to tell you so much," Wren muttered against his skin. Her nose traced over the ink on his chest and she inhaled the scent of him before pressing her ear against him. His heart beat steadily.

"An' ya can. Ya _will_," he said firmly. "Let's get ya cleaned up, first."

* * *

"Any more o' that whiskey hangin' about?" Connor inquired softly as he padded into the kitchen.

Pam barely looked away from the window she was staring out of. "By the microwave," she muttered.

Connor sighed at her short treatment of him. He really couldn't blame her, he had shown up at her place towing his brother, who had been shot (by his girlfriend, no less) and a package boy for the Italian mafia. She hadn't said much to him since she'd finished patching Murphy up. Said brother had woken a few hours later, whining about a shower, and disappeared from the couch to the bathroom. Connor had stood and stretched then, his vigil and prayers over for the time being.

He grabbed the bottle that Pam had mentioned and took up a chair across from Pam's. "What I'm goin' ta tell ya might be difficult ta understand," Connor began softly. He rolled the bottle between his hands and then poured a shot for himself. "But ya need ta hear it before anything else happens."

Pam sighed and rubbed her fingers over her eyelids. "Anything else?" she echoed hoarsely. "Connor, this is serious shit…"

"I know," Connor stressed gently. He frowned into his whiskey for a moment. "Yer grandmother – she's a devout Catholic, aye?"

The brunette finally shot Connor a glance – more of a glare, really, but he wouldn't be deterred.

"An' she's had dreams o'tha Lord…knows about tha Lord's callin', an' such."

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to believe a word you say?" Pam muttered through clenched teeth.

"Have faith, Pam," Connor pleaded. "Tha Good Lord would never steer one of his own wrong. Ya know dat in yer heart. I know ya do. M'not askin' ya ta have a religious awakenin' here, but I am askin' ya ta put aside yer doubt an' yer fear. Dis is important ta me, an' it's important ta Murph."

She turned her eyes to him again, and though they were still hard, the edginess to them was gone, replaced with a hopeful light. "Start at the beginning," she shrugged.

"It was Mass on Saint Patty's day that started it," Connor began. "Though I believe dat it was merely a long time comin'. Murph an' I, we came ta dis country fer a reason."

* * *

The fact that Murphy had seen Wren like this only weeks before was not lost on him. He sat quietly on the lid of the toilet as he listened to her moving about under the water, the occasional sigh escaping her. If this life, this choice, broke her down, then why did she do it? It wasn't like he was unaffected by what he did. Killing someone, no matter how evil they were, wasn't easy. He leaned back against the tank and rubbed a hand over his face.

The water shut off a few moments later, and Wren's feet squeaked along the bottom of the tub before the shower curtain was pushed back. His head came up automatically, his eyes roaming over her, checking once more for any injuries he didn't see before. With the blood washed away, she didn't look like she'd fared too badly, but not all cuts and bruises were skin deep. He surged to his feet and held out the towel he'd been clutching in his lap.

"Thanks," she mumbled with a nod. She quickly wiped down her arms and torso, and then wrapped the towel around her body. Her hands went to her hair, and she squeezed the water out as her eyes landed on Murphy. His deep blue gaze was expectant.

Wren stepped out of the tub and past him. Standing before the mirror, she watched Murphy watching her in the reflection, and then looked down at the sink and took a deep breath.

"I was thirteen the first time I killed someone."

Murphy paused from where he stood behind Wren and stared at her, not knowing what to say.

Wren craned her neck up and over her shoulder to look at the dark Irishman. "It was my father."

"Hail Mary," Murphy mumbled, the washcloth in his hand forgotten as he crossed himself.

"Maybe I should start at the beginning," Wren frowned.

"Aye, after a bombshell like dat, a bit o'back story might help set tings in perspective."

Wren nodded. "All right. My father was Russian, and had defected to the United States in the wake of the Cold War. The Iron Curtain put a lot of pressure on him. My grandfather – my father's father – was a communist, and a fisherman in Listvjanka. My father met my mother in WashingtonState – that's where Chris and I were born. When I was three, my father shipped us all back to Russia. By then, the wall had come down in Berlin. Mother Russia was happy to have one of her sons back, and happy to have him bring his children in tow. Nate was born the next summer, right there in my grandfather's home. My grandfather's name was Arkady Volkov."

Murphy wiped the water from his face and blinked down at her. "Where does Abernathy come from?"

"That's my mother's maiden name. After my father…" she paused, frowning slightly. "It was right around the time when the Soviet regime was collapsing. My mother somehow managed to get us back to the States. She knew something wasn't quite right about her husband's death…knew something wasn't quite right with _me_. I didn't know it at the time, I was too young to realize it. Arkady was still a firm believer in Soviet Russia and felt that it would only be a matter of time before the country's upheaval was healed. He was grooming me. He was turning me into a perfect sharp-shooter that he believed would one day take down those that opposed communism."

* * *

"Kill all that is evil," Connor stated. "So that which is good may flourish." He shrugged. "Ya can't tell me dat havin' da same dream as me twin brudder is coincidence. Da Lord spoke t'us, Pam, plain an' simple."

"So, what, you're acting as tha hand o'God?" she asked incredulously.

Connor shook his head, frowning at her tone. "We didn't choose dis, Pamela, it chose _us_. Dere's evil everywhere, ya know dat, ya seen it yerself."

Pam shoved her chair back from the kitchen table and stood abruptly. "That doesn't give you the right to kill, Connor!" she hissed. "You're not vigilantes! You can't run around the streets of Boston shootin' whomever ya think is evil! An' ya can't do it in tha name of tha Lord; it's not right."

Connor scowled at her righteousness and stood as well, stalking across the kitchen to stand before her. "I confess me sins, Pam, every fuckin' day when I get up, and every night b'fer I go ta sleep. Tha Lord knows what we do, an' tha Lord tanks us."

"By yer brudder gettin' _shot_? Fer Chrissake, Conn, he could have been _killed_. An' next time it could be _you_!" Her voice was edged with fear and anger, and her chest heaved with each breath she took.

"Pam," Connor said softly, his hands coming to her face. "It will be fine, lass. I don't ask ya ta like what I'm doin', yer right, it's bloody an' it's violent. But have faith in me, an' me brudder. Dis is da right ting. I know it is."

Pam sneered, shoving Connor's hands away. She stared into his crisp blue eyes. "The right thing," she muttered. "Is draggin' yer friend inta it the right thing?"

"Rocco isn't a believer, but he knows what we're doin' does't come from thin air."

"I don't fuckin' believe ya," she muttered hotly, pushing past Connor and heading into the living room. "_Any_ of ya." She paused, hearing the shower running in the bathroom down the hall. Murphy's spot on the couch was vacant. Wren wasn't anywhere to be seen. Pam whirled on Connor and narrowed her hazel eyes. "How does Wren fit in t'all o'this?"

* * *

"Wren isn't yer real name, is it?" Murphy asked as Wren tugged a comb through her hair.

She paused and set the comb down, and the quickly braided the damp strands of her hair. "No," she answered shortly. "But I've gone by Wren since I was fifteen."

"What's yer name, den?"

She shook her head, securing the braid with an elastic and then slid her hands along the cool porcelain of the sink. She clutched the edges and turned her head to the side, not looking back at Murphy, but focusing on the shower curtain. "Doesn't matter. That girl doesn't exist anymore." She bent and gathered the blood stained dress and turned back to Murphy.

He watched her closely, blue eyes narrowed and contemplative. "_Vidna ptitsa po polyotu,_" he reasoned slowly.

Wren snorted, a wry smile hanging on her lips. "_Babushka nadvoye skazala: to li dozhdik, to li sneg, to li budet, to li net_."

"So, what about yer brudders?" Murphy asked. "I mean…it couldn't have been just you dat was being groomed by yer grandfather."

Wren shrugged. "Chris was too old for my grandfather to really instill anything in him. Nate was too stubborn. He'd started hanging around with the wrong crowd anyway, according to Arkady. Nate was friends with street kids, kids that grew up pickpocketing, grifting, that sort of thing. He was good with people. I was good with guns. We made a good team for a while."

"What happened?"

This time, Wren shook her head. Murphy's legs were beginning to shake from where he was favoring his uninjured side. There was still a lot of blood on him and she nodded to the shower. "Get cleaned up. You look like you're ready to fall over. When was the last time you ate?"

Murphy groaned, rolling his head along his shoulders. "Yer not gettin' out o'this that easily," he warned, even as he tugged the blood-tinged boxers down his thighs.

Wren stared at him for a moment, sweeping her gaze up and down his lean frame, and then back to his face. "I know," she nodded. "But I'm not the only one who's going to be talking. We both have a lot of things that shouldn't be left unsaid. What the fuck were you doing at CopelyPlaza?" Her question was murmured, almost to herself, and so when Murphy answered her, she hadn't been expecting it.

"Foreign relations," Murphy growled cynically.

Wren snorted back a chuckle. "And whose plan was it to crash through the ceiling?"

Murphy couldn't help but grin a little. "How do you know what happened up dere?"

Wren winked. "Long distance shots are my specialty. Let me guess – Connor's idea?"

"Stupid fuckin' rope," was Murphy's only reply.

"I can't believe that actually worked," she said as an afterthought. "Never mind that." She nodded to the shower. "Get clean. I'll fix you something to eat."

* * *

_**Some Russian Translations:**_

_****__Vidna ptitsa po polyotu: The bird is known by its flight (English equivalent: the tree is known by its fruit)_

_****____Babushka nadvoye skazala: to li dozhdik, to li sneg, to li budet, to li net: Granny said two things - either it will rain or it will snow; it will or it won't (despite all that has been said, the outcome is still unknown)_

_Hello dear readers, writers, ficcers, shippers, and anyone else that stumbles upon this site and, subsequently, my story. A lot of people skip over authors' notes (I'm guilty, I've done it) but I ask that you stop for a moment and read the following._

_I'm sure a lot of you have had the chance to read at least the first book of the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy which, for one reason or another, has become a literary sensation. And a lot of you already know that this best selling series actually got its start with a piece of fanfiction – Twilight fanfiction, to be specific. The 'original' piece, entitled 'Master of the Universe' and 'Fifty Shades of Grey' are almost identical word for word, save for some name changes. The writing is elementary, the story is sub-par, and the sex does NOT warrant a spread in Cosmo magazine._

_So what's the big deal? Why did this book sweep so many readers away? Have said readers of the book now become rabid readers of fanfic? Is fanfiction in jeopardy? Do any of us have the potential to change a few names and have the next best seller on here? How many literary agents, right now, are trolling these sites, searching for the next big thing?_

_I guess what I'm trying to say is that I feel a little betrayed. I feel anger. And yes, I'm jealous. Here I am, busting my ass for the last seven years, trying to find the next big thing in writing. It's not an easy thing, as a lot of you know. Out of nowhere (well, actually, out of Twilight) somebody gets the big idea to change a few details, skip over copyright laws, and secure their financial future for the rest of their lives. There are magazine articles, entire magazines devoted to the books, and the movie rights have already been optioned. Had I known that all I had to do was change a few names and a few physical descriptions, and sell my soul and my integrity, than perhaps I, too, could be well on my way to making millions._

_That's it. That's my rant for now. But I urge you tell me what your thoughts are on 50 Shades. Did you like the book? Love it? Loathe it? Do you agree with its shady origins? Disagree? Let me know with a PM…I'm curious!_


	33. Chapter 33

_A/N: So, sorry about the mega cluster fuck that was my post last night! And I hadn't even had any beer yet! Not only did I post the wrong chapter, but then I forgot to include the English translations for the Russian between Murph and Wren, and it was totally awesome, too! I've gone back and stuck it in at the end of chapter 32, I think it may still have some impact if you go back and read it...please? For me? I know a lot of you are dying to know what they said!_

_Thanks for your comments regarding my 50 Shades rant - a lot of interesting feedback, and it's comforting to know that the majority of writers/readers here feel the same way about it and Twilight. Some of you may or may not know that I'm struggling to write an original work (I've been doing so for the past ten years) and while I have a bit of frame work, I lost a lot when I replaced my harddrive last year. That being said, here's another topic for discussion: What do YOU want to read? If you were to pick up a book and buy it, what made you buy it? _

_Here's the next chapter...some more background, and a new development that I didn't see coming until I wrote it!_

* * *

Connor paused and took a breath just as Wren stepped into the kitchen. The diminutive blonde paused, looking from Connor, to Pam, and then back to Connor, who watched her expectantly.

"He's in the shower," Wren informed softly. "Your brother…"

"Aye," Connor answered hoarsely.

Pam frowned at the other woman for a moment and then stood, moving to her counter. "Do you want some coffee? Or something to eat?"

Wren waved a hand. "Coffee, please. Mind if I rummage through your fridge?"

Pam shrugged, trying a small smile (she found it wasn't nearly as hard to do as she thought it might be; with the blood washed off, Wren seemed so small and so harmless). "Of course. Help yourself."

Wren nodded and moved to the appliance, opening the door and leaning inside to take stock. She immediately began gathering things from the shelves, loading her arms and closing the door with her hip. Both Pam and Connor watched as Wren moved seemingly on autopilot.

"We were just talkin' about ya," Connor piped up from where he still sat perched at the kitchen table.

Wren paused as she drew a knife from a butcher's block. "Oh?"

Connor shifted his blue eyes to Pam as if asking her if he should continue. Pam merely shrugged and then made a 'go ahead' gesture towards Wren. Connor nodded and looked back to the blonde. "Aye. Pam was…well, we both were wonderin'…" he broke off, a million questions racing through his mind. _We were wondering why ya had a gun. Why ya shot Murphy. Where ya learned to shoot. Why you were lettin' yerself be used as bait. Why yer workin' fer the Irish._

"What's going on?" Pam finally said, encompassing all of Connor's – and her – concerns.

The knife blade sliced through the tomato on the board without hesitation, and Wren halted all other action as she stared down at the spray of juice and seeds. She heard shuffling at the doorway to the kitchen and glanced up to see Murphy duck into the room and take a stiff seat next to his brother, looking on curiously. He tried a different route.

"How come ya never cooked fer me? I mean, other than that omelette?"

She gave Murphy a dry stare. "It's a sandwich, Murph. I wouldn't call it cooking." When he continued to look at her expectantly, she shrugged. "It's not something I normally do. Not anymore, anyway. I cooked a lot with my mom when we arrived back in the States. When she died…I just never bothered. No one around to appreciate it." She looked up at Murphy as she set a pan down on the stove to heat, and then glanced to Connor and Pam. "I hate cooking a whole meal for one person." She tore open a package of bacon and threw a few slices into the pan to sizzle.

"Ya cook when somethin's botherin' ya," Murphy pointed out.

Wren nodded silently and continued to work. For a while, nobody said anything, and then Wren began speaking, almost to herself, as she worked, and she lapsed in and out of Russian as she did.

_"Nathaniel was always getting into trouble…he still is. He racked up a lot of bad gambling debts; deals with unsavory people. He had a few connections with the Russian syndicates in other cities – Chicago, Buffalo, Sacramento, Reno…_ Idiot couldn't always pay them back so he started shelling out my services. Word got around. I made a name for myself – or Nate did. _Ptichka_. That's what Arkady called me. Little Bird. _Best shot from a quarter mile. Best shot from across the sea._"

Behind her, she could hear Connor softly translating the Russian for Pam. She paused and worked quickly with the knife again, slicing through chicken, tomato, and cheese. The bacon came off of the heat. She stacked everything rye bread and managed to rustle up a few beers, too. She presented Pam and the MacManus twins with restaurant quality club sandwiches and hopped up on the counter across from the table and watched as the twins ate voraciously. Pam merely stared at her plate, the surrealism of the whole situation finally sinking in.

"So, yav killed people," Connor said around a thick bite of sandwich. He washed it down with a swig of beer and waited for Wren to answer.

"Yes," she answered, looking him straight in the eye.

Murphy swallowed and rubbed his hands on his thighs. "Ya tellin' me ya killed em' because dey were evil?"

She detected the hesitation in his voice, the caution behind carefully chosen words. No more lies. She shook her head, still keeping his gaze. "I killed them because I was good at it. And the pay off wasn't too bad, either."

Murphy scowled and sat back in his chair.

Wren sighed. "Look, you wanted the truth. So there it is. Were you hoping I was exacting revenge? That somebody maybe wronged me; that I was raped, or beaten, or perhaps left an orphan?" She heaved a sad chuckle. "There was a lot of grey area back then."

"An' now?" Pam ventured, finally looking up from her untouched sandwich.

"Now, the boys tell me why they killed eight Russian mob underbosses at CopelyPlaza, and two Italians at Hudson's Warehouse." She cocked an eyebrow in challenge to the twins.

Pam swung her gaze to Connor and Murphy. "That's a fair trade." She pushed her plate aside. "CopelyPlaza?" she echoed. "You know something about that massacre, don't you?"

Murphy cut his gaze to Wren and nodded. "All three of us do."

* * *

Pam rubbed her eyes tiredly, having listened for the last forty five minutes to Connor and Murphy's retelling of their version of Copely Plaza. With Wren's addition, Pam felt even more out of her comfort zone, especially when the twins praised the blonde's obvious sniping skill. "Okay," she sighed. "So, what you two are trying to tell me is that you're on a mission from god…"

"This isn't the Blues Brothers," Connor interjected.

Pam waved his comment away and continued, looking at Wren, "And you're a former sharp shooter for a former KGB operative. And everybody knows how to shoot a gun and you've all killed people."

Murphy shrugged. "Sums it up, doesn't it?"

Pam shook her head. "No – there's one other thing." She turned back to Wren. "Why the Irish? Why are you working for them?"

Wren shifted uncomfortably. "I don't really have a choice," she muttered.

"Can't you just say 'no'?" Pam suggested.

"It's not that easy," Wren said with a shake of her head. She shifted her gaze between the brothers and took a deep breath. "I'm wanted in connection for seven different 'murders', and I use that term loosely." She snorted and flicked her fingernails. "They had connections with the mob. Drug dealers. Petty criminals. Women beaters. Those types."

"Hail Mary," Connor breathed.

"Full o'Grace," Pam and Murphy finished.

"Exactly. Cops don't exactly see it that way, though. Murder is murder to them; for some reason they don't seem to care that these guys were scumbags. Only thing that matters is that someone else got them first. Makes them look bad, so they have to make an example." She looked at the twins and smiled sadly. "I wasn't lying when I said that my relationship with Nate was nothing like the one between the two of you. I have a rap sheet a mile long so one night, I left Chicago, didn't look back. Left Nate with a bunch of unfinished business. I didn't want to stick around and get arrested, or worse. Cops were looking for me, and so was half of the Chicago crime syndicate – Italians, Russians, hell, even the Japanese had caught wind. So when Nate showed up last month, I figured he was in trouble. He's always in trouble. And that's what he told me, that he'd racked up a sizeable debt with Monaghan."

"And instead of paying him out, he wanted your services in return?" Connor ventured.

Wren grinned tightly. "Not exactly. Nate had run into trouble, but he upped the ante. Instead of paying off Monaghan, he managed to sell me out. My own brother sold me to the Irish for three hundred thousand dollars."

"I'll feckin' kill him," Murphy snapped.

"Get in line," Connor barked.

"Please," Wren muttered. "He's not worth it. So, in order to keep me in line, Nate dropped a few hints that I had a less than savory past. As long as I cooperated, there wouldn't be any anonymous tips to the cops. You want to hear the ironic part? Ryan Donahue, Monaghan's head of security, _is_ a cop. A Fed, actually, no doubt on the organized crime unit, working inside Irish."

Connor and Murphy stole a glance at each other and rattled something off in Gaelic.

"D'ya think he knows you're…_you_?" Pam asked quietly.

"There's a very good chance. It explains why he got so close to me, asked me so many questions," Wren replied. She opened her mouth to say more, but Pam cut her off.

"All right. Here's the deal. My apartment is not a landing pad for vigilantes, no matter whose orders they follow."

Connor sat up straight and looked at the brunette closely. "What are ya sayin'?"

"I'm saying that the next time any of you – and this includes Rocco – ends up shot, or chased, or up the shit side of Southie, you don't come here. I don't want to be mixed up in this, Connor."

Connor scowled and leaned in close to Pam. "Lass, think about this…"

"I have," Pam assure him. "Oh, I've had the whole night and most of this morning to think about this. I want you out, Connor."

The fair MacManus twin drew back as if burned and his face fell. "Out?" he echoed with uncertainty.

Pam looked away from the hurt in his vibrant blue eyes and swallowed thick as she nodded. It killed her to do this – it was the _last_ thing she wanted, but she didn't know what else to do. She needed time to think. With a deep breath, she finally looked back at Connor. "Out of my apartment…and out of my life."


	34. Chapter 34

_A/N : So, there was a lot of reaction to Pam kicking Connor to the curb. A lot of readers were shocked - I'll let you in on a secret: so was I! But that's how I write, sometimes things just come out on the page when they do and it works. Sure, they've been together for a lot longer than Wren and Murph, but when you're cornered, sometimes you do irrational things. I'll leave that there for now._

_You may notice once more that I've skewed the chronological order of events once more. Take it as a bit of literary liscence; the boxing match happened after Copely, but the diner incident (where Rocco goes ballistic) happens AFTER the boxing match. I still think it works. Anyway, here it is. Thanks again for reading and reviewing and favoriting and following!_

_I own anything you DON'T recognize. And if Troy Duffy wants me to pen BDS III, all he has to do is pick up the phone!_

* * *

Wren had been at Rocco's for two days and in that short span of time, she had learned a few things. Firstly, Rocco wasn't the biggest advocate for housekeeping, apparent with the stained and littered coffee table, the grungy carpet, and un-watered plant. A haze of cigarette smoke permeated the air, and the contents of the fridge were leftover pizza boxes – some full, most of them empty – half an onion, a questionable carton of orange juice, and a full case of beer at all times.

The second thing she learned was that sharing a couch with Connor and Murphy was not as cozy as some might think. Murphy, for example, was still on the mend, and so that meant Connor insisted he recline, laying back on half of the couch, his bad leg propped up on pillows while his other one was bent and resting against the back of the couch. Wren sat wedged there between his legs, her shoulder close enough that Murphy could stroke her skin with his fingertips. He was prone to do so when he was sleeping, or if he needed to get her attention. Even when they weren't sleeping, she tended to stay close to him, mostly smoking, but talking every now and again. They hadn't pushed anything physical, due mostly to Murphy's injury, but also partly because of the tension still present. She was a little more on edge, and watched her surroundings with a hawk-like intensity.

Connor would sleep on her other side, hot and snoring, and breathing whiskey-tinged breath across her face. To say he was taking his breakup with Pam hard was an understatement. He'd become moody and inconsolable. The first night at Rocco's, he'd thrashed in his sleep, jabbing Wren in the ribs with his elbow about a dozen times. The second night, she'd woken with Murphy clutching one shoulder while he dozed, and Connor curled into her other side while he snored.

The next morning, she had woken to Murphy cursing at Rocco, and Connor yelling something in Italian from the kitchen. Pushing Murphy's leg off of hers, Wren stretched the kink out of her shoulder and stood, headed to the bathroom. She was cut off as Connor stuck his head out of the kitchen, smoke dangling between his lips, spatula in hand.

"Want eggs?" he growled around the cigarette.

Wren recoiled and rubbed a hand over her face. "Mph," was her only answer. She hadn't seen eggs in the fridge over the last two days and didn't want to know where Connor had managed to find them.

Connor chuckled and exhaled another lungful of smoke. "Ya look like shit, lass."

"Thanks, Conn, that's what every girl wants to hear. Move." She went to shove him aside.

"Hey," he growled, catching her wrist with his free hand. He yanked her back around to face him. "Don't ya think we have some tings ta talk about?"

One pale eyebrow crept up and Wren stared at Connor. "I think I pretty much covered it last night," she hissed.

It was Connor's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Are ya feckin' serious? Ya held a gun to me head – ya feckin' shot at me!"

Wren pulled out of his grasp. "I didn't hit you," she snapped back.

Connor's mouth turned angry, but he didn't move to let her pass.

Wren sighed. "What, you want me to apologize?"

His blue eyes narrowed. "I want ya ta promise me dat whatever shit ya were in, yer not gonna do it again. No more coke, no more waving guns at yer mates, an' no more lies."

"_You_ should fucking talk," Wren sneered. "How long did you think you could keep your and Murphy's extra curricular activities a secret from Pam? And then you have the balls to show up at her place, shot and bleeding…"

"You showed up, too!" Connor barked. "An' m'not talkin' about me an' Pam!"

"Then what _are_ you talking about?"

"M'talkin' about me an' you!" he growled lowly.

Wren froze and gaped at Murphy's brother. "I don't think I follow."

He tilted his head and then snatched up her hand again, hauling her into the kitchen. "Sit down," he muttered, pushing her towards the table. He then turned back to the stove and busied himself scraping eggs out of the pan and onto plates. After pouring coffee, he turned and set his version of breakfast down on the table: eggs, of course, and the coffee, two cans of Guinness, a pack of cigarettes, and leftover pizza.

Wren opted for coffee and beer first, fishing a cigarette out of the pack and lighting it. She then sat back and waited for Connor to start explaining.

He dug into his eggs. Clearly, a crippled heart wouldn't deter the MacManus appetite and he shoveled food into his mouth, alternating bites with swigs of coffee, and when that was finished, beer. Finally, after eating half of his breakfast, he set the Guinness down and pushed his plate aside, reaching for the cigarettes. When one was lit, he looked at Wren contemplatively for a moment.

"Do ya love me brudder?" Connor finally asked.

"Yes," Wren answered without hesitation.

Connor nodded and blew out a stream of smoke, rolling the ash from the end of the cigarette. "Ya need ta learn somethin' then, lass. Ya need ta know dat Murph an' I will take care of ya." He looked up from the ashtray and into Wren's dark blue eyes. "We'll keep ya safe," he continued. "An' if fer some reason Murph can't do it, know dat I can."

Wren shook her head. "I don't need someone to take care of me."

Connor squinted at her for a moment, a small grin on his lips. "Ya know, yer just as stubborn as Murph. It's a miracle ya even got together. I know ya can take care o'yerself, lass, but I tink yer in a bit over yer head. Ya plannin' on takin' down Gareghty and Monaghan all on your own?"

Wren blinked and looked away. "I wasn't actually thinking it at all."

Connor nodded. "It's not gonna go away, yeah? Dem boyos…dey won't let ya go. Not wit skills like yers." He took another deep drag of his cigarette.

"I know," she admitted softly, bringing her own cigarette to her lips. Her hands ran back over her hair and she clasped the back of her neck as she stared out of the window. "I know, but I can't ask you…"

"Ya don't hafta," Connor interrupted, reaching and grasping her chin to turn her eyes to him. "Dat's what I'm sayin', lass. Ya don't hafta ask. You'll never hafta ask." He skidded his chair along the linoleum floor so that he was directly in front of Wren, their knees touching, his hands reaching for hers. "Yer Murph's, yeah? An' so yer mine, too. An' we take care of our own."

Wren stared at their joined hands for a moment, letting his words sink in. When she looked up at him, she raised a wary eyebrow. "And Pam? The same thing goes for her, right?"

Connor's jaw twitched and he moved to pull away, the wound still way too fresh, but Wren's hands were deceptively strong. "She'll come around, Connor. Maybe not right away, and it might not be with total acceptance, but she's not stupid. She'll know that you're following your heart and your faith."

As she finished, her hands loosened, and Connor pulled from her grip a few moments later, heaving a sigh and running his fingers through his dishevelled hair. His lips quirked in a wry grin. "Rather foolish of me ta think she'd be okay wit' all o'dis."

Wren shrugged and glanced out the door, towards the living room where Murphy was still laid up, speaking lowly with Rocco. "I admire your honesty, Conn," she said remorsefully, glancing back at him. "Think things would be different if I'd been honest with Murphy from the start?"

Connor pursed his lips and then finished his cigarette. "Would be nearly as excitin'," he declared, blowing out a stream of smoke. He crushed the butt into the ashtray and shot her a pointed look.

"I'm sorry I took a shot at you," she sighed, before standing and stretching. She moved to the stove and scraped out the rest of the scrambled eggs and piled the remaining pizza onto a plate. "Think he's hungry?"

Connor rolled his eyes with a chuckle. "Dis is _Murph_ you're talkin' about." He stood and grabbed another coffee mug. "I'll meet ya in dere."

* * *

"Somethin's still botherin' me 'bout Copely, Roc," Murphy muttered from where he was sprawled on the couch.

Rocco sputtered and waved a dismissing hand in Murphy's direction. "I don't know what you're talking about. I mean, after fifteen fuckin' years, I finally got my chance!"

Murphy narrowed his eyes at his friend's stubbornness. "Dey sent ya in wit' a six shooter, Roc," he growled. "An' dere were nine men in dat room."

"Yeah, yeah, ya told me once already," Rocco fumed. Didn't Murphy get it? That he was finally on the way to being 'in'?

"D'ya think I'm feckin' lyin?" Murphy snapped. "Jesus, Roc, yer such a fuckin' retard…"

"Ah, fuck you, you fuckin', Mick!" Rocco roared. He stood, grabbing his coat and his cigarettes, jamming the latter in his pockets. "I mean, what tha fuck d'ya know about it, anyway?"

Murphy sat up abruptly, ignoring the brief flare of pain in his leg. "I know dat ya were set up – ya can't tell me dat it doesn't raise some sort o'concern!"

Rocco flipped him the bird, too proud to even consider that Murphy might be right. But there was an inkling in the back of his mind. His hand slung into his jacket pocket, feeling the weight of the six shooter there. Turning on his heel, he stopped short at the sight of Wren standing in the doorway, balancing a plate of food. Connor stood behind her, coffee in hand.

"What tha fuck, Roc?" Connor growled first, flicking his eyes to Murphy for some explanation.

"This fuckin' wop thinks it's a good idea to confront Papa Joe after that bullshit at Copely," Murphy snapped.

Wren frowned and sidled past Rocco. "Wouldn't Papa Joe have taken care of him the other night? At the boxing match?"

Rocco afforded Wren a glance and nodded, looking back between the twins. "Exactly, guys. Look, don't worry about it, I've got it under control. I'm not gonna confront Papa Joe; I'm not a complete idiot…"

"Yeah?" Murphy sneered. "What do you want on yer fuckin' tombstone?"

Rocco flipped Murphy off and turned back to the door. He lifted an eyebrow at Connor. "You wanna get out of my way?"

Connor fumed silently, but stood aside, not about to meddle with another man's fate. As Rocco passed him and pulled the door open, Connor's hand shot out and grabbed Rocco's arm. "Look, Roc, things start gettin' weird, ya get tha fuck out, ya hear me?"

Rocco rolled his eyes, but at Connor's steely gaze, the Italian relented and gave him a small nod. "Right." The door shut hollowly behind him.

Murphy let out a deep sigh and punched the cushion next to him. "Think he'll be all right?" he asked Connor, ignoring the food the Wren set in front of him.

"Just have ta hope he will be." He handed Murphy the coffee mug and sat heavily in the armchair next to the couch. "We got somethin' else ta talk about, Murph." He looked to Wren.

Murphy's eyes followed Connor's and he stared at the woman sitting next to him with curiosity. "Oh, aye? What's this, then?"

"Ya know what it is, Murph. Ya know better than I do."

Murphy chewed his lip and snagged a piece of pizza from the plate Wren had brought him. "Aye," he nodded gravely. He looked back to Wren. "Are ya up for it, girl?"

Wren looked between the two brothers as a heavy silence filled the cracks in the room. "What exactly are we talking about?"

"Gareghty's got ta go down," Connor announced as he lit a pair of cigarettes and handed one to Murphy.

Wren's eyes never left the dark MacManus as the light one spoke; Murphy in turn watched her just as closely, gauging her reaction. When she did nothing, Murphy took up where Connor had left off. "This is tha scum we're after, Wren. They blackmailed ya. Took advantage of ya. Fuckin' used ya as bait…"

"I didn't do anything I wasn't aware of, Murphy," Wren pointed out. She wasn't a victim. She _wasn't_.

Murphy shook his head stubbornly. "Call it whatever ya want, girl. A few more weeks with those boyos an' ya'd end up dead."

"I think it's obvious that she can take care o'herself," Connor pointed out, wary of his brother's outburst. "But Murph's right, Wren," he continued. "Maybe not dead…but dere are worse tings."

Wren stood and snatched the cigarette from Murphy's mouth, smoking it while she paced the room. "I know Gareghty's got to go down," she muttered. "But I'm thinking all bets are off. They probably already know that Donahue is a Fed. With me disappearing like I did two nights ago, they'll assume the worst: that I cut a deal. I've practically painted a target on my back."

Murphy shifted on the couch and looked to his brother. "So the first thing we do is find out if Donahue's cover has been blown."

Wren snorted. "How do you plan on doing that?"

"We've got our resources," he answered cryptically. "What about Nate?"

Wren paused and shook her head. "What _about_ Nate?"

"If Donahue is no longer an option, perhaps yer brudder can be persuaded to help out."

This time, Wren laughed. "He sold me out for three hundred thousand dollars. You have that kind of cash lying around? Nate doesn't come cheap."

"There are other forms of persuasion," Connor mentioned.

"Yeah," Wren nodded. "But how are you gonna find him?"

Connor grinned and shared a look with Murphy. "Leave tha logistics ta me, lass. I'm thinkin' o'somethin' big. Really big. It's gonna blow yer socks off."

* * *

Donahue woke with a start, blinking up at the soundproofing tiles of the ceiling. Then he noticed the steady _beep beep_ of a heart monitor, and felt tubes stuffed in his nose. With tingling fingers he reached up and pulled them free, rubbing a hand over his face as he did, and dislodging the heart monitor from his fingertip. The drone of a flatline sounded, and there was commotion in the hallway before a nurse busted in, followed by two uniformed officers and a snappily dressed Agent Smecker.

"Mr. Donahue, you're awake," the nurse said by way of greeting. "I need you to calm down – you've been unconscious for two days.

"What," he croaked, swallowing against the dryness. "What happened?"

"Lie back, Mr. Donahue. I'm going to get you some water. Are you in any pain?"

At first, Donahue shook his head, but as his brain and his body came back online, the dull ache in his hip that was barely noticeable suddenly flared and he reacted, arching up off of the bed with a sharp groan of pain.

The nurse barked at the two uniformed cops. "Can I get a hand? Hold him down for me, please." She busied herself with a syringe and a clear vial of liquid. "Mr. Donahue, I'm going to give you some morphine for the pain, all right? Your left hip was shattered and had to be removed and replaced. You've been through a lot, do you understand? I need you to calm down."

Donahue's original surge of energy died off quickly as exhaustion and pain swept over him. Grimacing, he nodded, letting the cops press him back into the bed while the nurse pumped morphine into his IV. Soon, he felt relief, mixed with a wave of nausea. He swallowed thickly and rolled his eyes before abruptly vomiting down the front of his hospital gown.

The two cops holding him jumped back with matching disgusted expressions, and the nurse merely rolled her eyes. "It's a normal reaction, Mr. Donahue. I'll be back in a few moments and we'll get you cleaned up, all right?" She moved to the door and looked to Smecker. "I don't think he's in any condition to talk," she warned.

"It's all right," Smecker said with a smirk. "I just need him to listen." He nodded to the uniforms that they could leave, too. When it was just him and Donahue, he pulled up a chair next to the bed and elegantly crossed one leg over the other. "So," he began casually. "This is a bit of a cluster fuck, wouldn't you agree?"

Donahue merely stared, unsure of where the conversation was going. "How did I get here?" he mumbled.

"Ambulance," Smecker answered smartly. "Someone at that boxing match called it in. Any ideas on who that might have been? After all, the call was made from your cell phone." He held up a bag with his phone, covered in blood, and waved it.

"Wren," Donahue whispered, closing his eyes briefly.

Smecker looked smug. "Ah, yes, 'Wren'. Tell me, Donahue, who is she? Is she the 'bird' you were talking about last week?"

Donahue shook his head. "Not talking."

"No need to. I know a bit about your precious 'Little Bird'. Pulled up your case files for the last four years and found a slew of information on one Wren Abernathy."

Donahue stared at Smecker, but said nothing.

"All right. That's not why I'm here, anyway, but don't think I'm going to let it go, either. You mentioned that you'd give me Gareghty and Monaghan. Now, as far as I know, your cover hasn't been blown yet. When you were ID'd here at the hospital, your division was notified and a complete non-disclosure was ordered. As far as the nurses and doctors are concerned, you're Ryan Donahue, head of security for the Irish Mob." He paused for a moment, letting Donahue process that information. "I'm thinking we can work together, Agent Donahue. Help each other out, as it is."

This time, Donahue's eyelids fluttered and he slumped back into the pillows. A doctor bustled in at that moment, glancing at Agent Smecker. "I'm sorry, Agent, but any further questions are going to have to wait. Mr. Donahue needs his rest."

"Of course, Doctor," Smecker answered pleasantly, standing and smoothing out his suite jacket. "Don't go anywhere, Donahue. I'll be in touch."


	35. Chapter 35

"M'goin' out," Connor announced as he pulled on his jacket. It was an hour past breakfast and he had been going on about running out of cigarettes between the three of them – him, Murphy, and Wren. "Try not ta kill each other while m'gone," he chuckled.

Murphy flipped him the bird and Wren merely rolled her eyes, and then they were alone, together, in Rocco's apartment. There was silence between them as they sat together on the couch, and smoke rose up as they inhaled and exhaled the last of Connor's cigarettes.

Wren noticed Murphy shifting and scratching the side of his leg where his bandage was. "Want me to look at that?"

He shrugged. "Aye, s'pose that would be a good idea." He twisted around until he was stretched out on the couch, and shoved the sweats he still wore down to his ankles. His forefinger prodded the bandage as he frowned. "Itches like hell."

"Means it's healing," Wren announced as she perched on her knees at Murphy's side. She peeled the tape back and lifted the gauze, watching Murphy's face as she did so. She then looked to the wound. "Looks okay," she surmised. "But it should probably breathe." She pulled the bandage off the rest of the way and folded it over itself before moving to discard it in the kitchen garbage. When she returned, Murphy was looking at her thoughtfully. "What?" she mused softly.

Murphy ruffled his hair and shifted back on the couch, making room for her to sit. "Ya said tha other night that ya…shot yer da," he began cautiously.

Wren paused and then nodded, climbing onto the sofa. "I did," she nodded.

"Tell me what happened?"

"Um…there's not a lot to tell, really. Arkady was upset that my father had left in the first place and he didn't fully trust him anymore. Didn't believe that he'd had a change of heart, either. Thought my father was a spy for the US." She paused with a chuckle. "Arkady was paranoid; a mean old bastard. I didn't know I'd shot my father until it was too late. I thought it was target practice in the woods. I thought I'd shot a deer."

Murphy swallowed thickly. "Does yer Ma…did she know?"

"No," Wren sighed. "At least, I don't think she did. She never mentioned it, not even when we returned to the States. Chris and Nate knew nothing, too."

"I never knew my Da," Murphy said after a stretch of silence. "Just me, an' Connor, and Ma."

"I'm sorry," Wren offered sincerely. "I don't feel like I knew my dad, either. It happened so long ago…I was taught how to compartmentalize very early on." She looked at her hands. "I have trust issues, you realize."

Murphy chuckled lightly. "Aye."

"When I was fifteen, a psychiatrist told me that I had intimacy issues. I had problems making friends. I'd spent so long being used that I expected it; always expected things to come with a price."

"But ya don't feel that way about me?" Murphy ventured.

"How can I?" Wren answered sadly. "You've been nothing but honest with me from the start. You and Connor. I tried, Murphy, I tried so hard to be straight up with you, but I thought that the only way to do that was to push the past back, to keep it in the box I'd stuffed it in when left Chicago. I only wanted a fresh start."

Murphy nodded. "That's all anyone can hope fer. After somethin' like dat…after anytin' like dat… Connor an' I came here five years ago lookin' fer somethin' dat we couldn't find at home…at first, we didn't know what it was. But we had faith, aye? Knew dat we would find it eventually." He smiled. "A little strange, don't ya think, dat da very ting yer tryin' ta leave behind is tha same ting dat is our calling?"

Wren twisted on the couch to face him fully. "Do you really believe that? That this is your calling?"

"I believe tha good lord has a plan fer all o'us, girl. An' dat we are put on certain paths for reasons." Murphy reached for her hand and laced his fingers with hers. "M'not tha best at expressin' things, girl…think we both suffer from dat affliction. But believe me when I say dat I met ya fer a reason. Dat I'm wit ya fer a reason. An' if dat reason is only cuz I love ya, den dats all I need ta know."

Wren chuckled. "Murphy MacManus, you smooth talker, you."

"Aye, girl. Is it workin'?"

She pursed her lips. "Don't know. Might need some more convincing."

Murphy slowly leaned forward, catching Wren's waist and pulling her to him as he sat back against the arm of the couch. "No more lies, aye? From dis point on." He looked at her lips for a moment and then back to her dark blue eyes.

"No more lies," Wren agreed. She watched his gaze wander back to her mouth. "I'm not fucking you on this sofa, Murph," she warned.

Murphy pouted and leaned down, brushing her lips with his. "Why not, girl?"

Wren shuddered, pushing her mouth firmly against his before breaking away. "Can you imagine the things Donna and Rocco have done on here?"

Murphy pulled away with a face. "Thanks fer the visual," he groused. "Me leg's not in the best workin' order, anyway," he shrugged. "But me mouth? That's a different story."

* * *

Connor strode into _The Black Rose_ like he owned the place, and ignored how conversation began to lag as those surrounding the bar noticed his presence. He scanned the seats quickly, finding Tommy Callahan easily enough. The knuckler was seated next to a slight, fair haired man with familiar blue eyes. Nate Abernathy, Connor concluded to himself, and he smirked with amused satisfaction as both Tommy and Nate stared at him as he took a seat, uninvited, at the table.

"Callahan," Connor greeted, shifting and waving to a nearby waitress. "Guinness," he called, before turning back to the table. "Who's your friend?" He nodded his head in Nate's direction.

Tommy's initial look of surprise melted into one of stark curiosity and he leaned forward on the table. "What are ya doin' here, MacManus? Last I heard, you and yer fuck-stick of a brudder didn't want anytin' ta do wit' tha Irish."

Connor shrugged insolently. "Lad can change his mind, can't he?"

"MacManus?" Nate echoed. "You're Murphy's brother?"

Connor lifted an eyebrow. "Aye," he drawled. "Who are you?"

Nate gave a little chuckle. "I'm Nate Abernathy," he announced. "Your brother is screwing my sister, Wren."

"That so?" Connor mused lightly. He picked up the beer the waitress had dropped off and drank deeply before turning back to Tommy. "Me and Murph have had some time ta discuss Mr. Monaghan's offer from the other night."

Tommy shook his head. "Mr. Monaghan doesn't usually extend his offer past the initial point. It's been more than a week, Connor. I don't know as though he'll need yer services."

Connor laughed. "C'mon, Tommy, don't give me that. Yer boss has been breathin' down our necks since we stepped foot on American soil. Ya tellin' me dat he's no longer interested?"

Tommy thought about Connor's words for a moment. "Well," he began slowly. "I can't answer fer Mr. Monaghan…but I can see if he'll meet wit da pair o'ya ta discuss things."

Connor nodded, pursing his lips. "All right." He snagged a pen from the table and scratched a phone number on a napkin. "Yer boss wants ta meet, dis is how ya get a hold of us." He then picked up his beer and drained the glass before standing to make his exit.

"Where's Wren?" Nate suddenly asked, standing as Connor did.

Connor bit his tongue, fuming inside at the sudden concern lacing the guy's voice. Probably just wanted to make sure he could still get his money. Connor shrugged. "Don't know. Haven't seen her since Tommy's fight – dat was a good one, by the by," he offered, glancing back to Callahan. "Thought I might ask ya tha same ting. Murph wants ta know."

Nate frowned with a scowl and sank back to his chair.

Connor gave Nate a tight smile. "If I see her, do ya want me ta deliver a message?"

Nate nodded, and grabbed the pen that Connor had used and scribbled a few words on another napkin. He handed it to Connor, who glanced down at it. "It's Russian," Nate bit out as he saw Connor reading. "So don't bother."

Connor's hand tightened on the napkin, but he nodded and shoved it in his jacket without a second glance. "Aye, I won't. Be seein' ya, boyos." He turned on his heel and left as quickly as he had come.

He waited until he'd crossed the street and rounded the corner before he dug Nate's note out of his pocket. Of course it was written in Russian; he couldn't have known Connor had a handle on that, and four other languages. Unfolding the napkin, he scanned the Cyrillic, translating it easily enough:

_I want my money. And I'll get it, one way or another._

Connor saw red, and threw his foot into a nearby garbage can with a loud curse. He needed to get back to the apartment and start planning.

* * *

Wren fingered the napkin that Nate had sent his message on, her eyes narrowed as she turned the words over and over again. She wished she knew just exactly _how_ she'd fallen out of Nate's good graces. He couldn't fault her for wanting a better life; not fully. It was something that they'd always talked about. Now, he saw her as his chance at that life, and she knew that despite his moronic tendencies, Nate was just as stubborn as she was. When he wanted something, he usually got it, no matter the consequences.

As she sat at the kitchen table, Murphy and Connor muttered back and forth to each other in Gaelic, their eyes flicking to her every now and again. The phone rang, startling them all, and Murphy dove for it, picking it up on the second ring.

"Roc? Is everything okay?" He paused, frowned, listening to the Italian mutter on the other end. After another chunk of seconds, Murphy set the phone down, staring at it with obvious concern.

"What's wrong?" Connor growled.

"He sounded weird," Murphy mumbled.

"Weird like how?" Connor pressed, leaning across the table.

Murphy shrugged. "Just…weird."

Wren stood abruptly from the table at that point and the twins shifted their attention to her.

"Did you read this?" she asked Connor, holding the napkin out to him.

He met her gaze. "Aye."

Murphy scowled and snatched it from Wren's hand. He read it over once, his scowl deepening, and he crushed the flimsy paper in his fist. "What tha fuck is that supposed ta mean?" He looked to Connor. "Ya didn't tell him where she was, did ya?"

Connor shook his head. "F'course not," he growled, shooting his brother a look of disbelief.

"It means," Wren hissed, interrupting the boys, "that Nate is going to try and track me down and hand me over to the Irish, once and for all."

Murphy froze, going silent, and sucked at his cigarette.

Connor shook his head. "Won't happen."

"God's truth," Murphy agreed.

There was silence after that, crawling through the dingy little apartment, and the three gathered around the table smoked, and drank, and then smoked more. The only talk was if someone requested another beer, or the lighter, or a slice of cold pizza from the fridge.

Half an hour had passed when the phone rang again. This time, Connor snagged it. " 'Lo?"

"MacManus?"

Connor recognized Tommy's voice on the other end. "Aye."

"The meeting is a go. You pick the time and place. Get back to us at the bar."

Connor nodded. "Aye."

The other end went dead, and Connor replaced the phone.

Murphy and Wren watched him expectantly.

Connor drummed his fingers on the table top for a moment before fishing a cigarette from the pack sitting there. He lit it quickly, blowing out a thick stream of smoke, and looked up to his brother and Wren.

And _that_ was when Rocco exploded into the apartment, and all hell broke loose.


	36. Chapter 36

She left the guys there to deal with Rocco's outburst, promising to meet up with the twins the day after the next. By then, Connor announced, he'd have a plan set out and he'd be ready to go over details.

"Where are ya goin'?" Murphy asked as Wren shoved the handful of belongings she had with her – cigarettes, one of Murphy's t-shirts, some bills borrowed from Rocco, and a spare SIG – into a small bag.

"Got a few things to take care of," Wren muttered, pulling her thrift-shop boots on.

Murphy rubbed his mouth and nodded. "Aye. Well…here," he said, holding out a slip of paper. "This is the number to where we're stayin'."

Wren took it, glanced at it, and smiled. "You're really staying with Rocco's mum?"

Murphy shrugged. "She's in Mexico, apparently."

"Right," Wren grinned wider. "Don't get blood on the carpet."

"You sure you won't stay with us?"

Wren shook her head, although Murphy detected a bit of reluctance. "I need to talk to Donahue."

Murphy's jaw tightened at the mention of Donahue's name. "What tha feck for?" he growled.

Wren sighed. "I need to know…to know what he knows. About me." She spread her arms out. "About this. Jesus, Murphy, this goes deep – really deep. And I don't want or need you or Connor involved."

Murphy scoffed. "A little late fer dat. I'm more than involved, Wren," he said firmly. He moved towards her and caught her off guard, cradling her face in his hands. Tilting her head up, he leaned down over her mouth, searching her eyes with his. "I'm invested," he admitted before softly touching her lips with his.

He kissed her again, and then a third time, and her breathing hitched as her hand dropped her bag and clutched his hair and shoulders. Backing her against the door, Murphy leaned into the kiss with his entire being, thrilled when Wren kissed him back with as much fervour.

"I have to go," Wren managed to mutter between their lips. Still, her hands tugged at anything she could reach – his shirt, his jeans, his hair, his hands.

Murphy nodded, breathing heavily through his nose. "Aye. But I don't want ta let ya," he answered, almost shyly. His next kiss was warm and wet, and he heard Wren whimper as his tongue wound slowly with hers. After a few seconds, he pulled away once more. "M'fraid ya won't come back."

She chuckled softly and pressed up on her toes so that their foreheads rested together. Her dark blue eyes found his bright ones and she held his gaze as she spoke. "I told you, Murphy, I'll always come back to you. _Always_."

"Aye, we'll see her in less than two days, Murph," Connor piped up from where he'd appeared around the corner.

Murphy uttered a curse at his brother's timing and reluctantly took a step back from Wren. "Aye," he nodded. "We'll see ya, then."

Wren picked up her bag and glanced back at the twins one last time before stepping out and closing the door behind her. With a sigh, Murphy collapsed back against the door and fixed Connor with a serious look. "Ya got a hold o'Smecker?"

Connor nodded. "Aye. They know she's comin' ta see Donahue. He's agreed to keep tha room clear for the next twelve hours."

Murphy nodded and ran a hand through his dark hair. "All right. Let's talk ta Roc an' find out more about dis strip joint."

* * *

For some reason, Pam wasn't that surprised to see Wren walk through the door of _Unltd Blue_. The brunette had a feeling she'd see the smaller woman again, and sooner rather than later. Still, Pam was on her guard, and as Wren approached the sales counter, Pam cast a quick eye around, wondering if one, or both, of the MacManus brothers was lurking nearby.

Wren chuckled. "Relax. I'm alone." She gave Pam a pointed look. "For someone who wants nothing to do with a certain Irishman, you seem rather eager to catch a glimpse of him."

Pam bristled and felt her cheeks flush. She looked down at the pile of T shirts she was refolding. "Whatever," she muttered, in a rather unconvincing tone. "Good riddance."

Wren rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I'm not buying that," she murmured smartly. Pam snapped her eyes up and Wren started talking once more. "But I'm not here to talk about that. I need your help."

Pam gave a tight smile. "I'm afraid my first aid kit is at home."

This made Wren laugh, and she shook her head. "No, nothing like that – but I didn't get to tell you how grateful I am that you were there for me…for _us_. Not too many people would have held it together quite like you did."

Pam paused her folding and shrugged. "I'm good under pressure."

"And you're good at changing your look."

Pam glanced up again and gave Wren a curious grin. "What are you getting at?"

Wren flashed her best smile and leaned over the counter. "I need you to make me look…well, like not _me_."

"What for?"

Now, Wren shook her head. "Doesn't matter. Don't want you involved like that. But I need your help…something to wear…a change to my hair…think you could hook a girl up?"

Pam pursed her lips and tilted her head. Of course she could help – she had what Tim considered to be her own personal tickle trunk in the back of the store. She nodded slowly. "All right," she agreed. "Follow me."

* * *

Pam smiled over Wren's shoulder as they both inspected her reflection in the mirror.

"Not bad," Wren murmured, smoothing her hand over the short, black, pixie-cut wig she now wore.

Pam snorted and turned to put away her makeup kit. "Your own mother wouldn't recognize you," she said triumphantly.

"I don't know about that," Wren answered quietly, still turning her head from side to side to see her reflection from all angles. Her eyes caught Pam's in the mirror once more. "I look just like her."

Pam faltered and looked at her hands, slightly blushing. "Oh." She started busying herself with recapping lipstick and closing eyeshadow cases. "Um…" she shrugged. "I don't…" she trailed off lamely, not knowing what to say.

Wren grinned and turned around to look at Pam. "Thank you." Her voice was soft, almost sad. "I'd forgotten what she looked like."

Pam smiled back. "Guess we'd better hope that Nate isn't hanging around?"

"No reason to be at the hospital," Wren slipped casually, reaching for the long black trenchcoat that Pam had picked out for her. She paused and glanced back to Pam.

Pam had also frozen at Wren's words and stared at her questioningly from over her shoulder. "You're going to see that cop?"

Wren nodded and gathered her borrowed purse before slipping on the small black ballet flats.

Pam blew out a heavy sigh. "Do the boys know?"

The former blonde smiled tightly. "It's getting harder to hide things from them. Yeah, they know. They're not happy about it."

"Can't say I blame them."

Wren looked closely at Pam. "You remember when you came to me about Murphy? Said he was a wreck without me?"

Pam sighed softly and nodded.

Wren nodded too. "Those two are a lot more alike than they seem. Think you'll ever talk to Connor again?"

Now, Pam bristled, and she slammed the lid of her case shut. "I honestly don't know."

And her tone was truthful. Wren understood all too well the reasoning behind Pam's decision. Still, she hadn't seen a couple better suited for each other – even she and Murphy couldn't compare to what Pam and Connor had. Finally, Wren offered half a smile in Pam's direction. "Well, at least you've thought about it." She turned, her purse in hand, and headed for the door that would lead back into the store front and then to the street. "Thank you. For everything, Pam. I don't have friends; I've never believed in them, but for you, I'll make an exception."

Pam chuckled darkly. "Oh, thank you so much," she growled playfully.

Wren halted at the door and then turned back to Pam and closed the distance between them. She hesitated only slightly before hugging her close and firm for a few seconds. "Thank you," she whispered again.

Pam had a feeling that the embrace didn't come naturally to Wren so she merely accepted it. "Any time," she whispered back.

* * *

Wren didn't know whether to take Donahue's unguarded hospital room as a good sign or a bad sign. She hovered near the nurses' station on the orthopaedics ward, watching as seniors shuffled back and forth on crutches and wheelchairs. When she'd called that morning for an update on Donahue's status, the nurse had informed her that he'd been checked in on Saturday night with a shattered hip and extensive bleeding. She'd never thought to associate that with the orthopaedics ward or with the fact that it would be overrun by gray-haired elderly folks looking sour in their old age. Hospitals wigged Wren out at the best of times; now, surrounded by the aged, it was just another affirmation of her own mortality.

She shuddered, and then set off down towards Donahue's room. Outside of the door, she hesitated and then, after a deep breath, she stepped inside and gently shut the door. Near the window lay Donahue, hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor that steadily beeped. He looked pale under the dim overhead light, washed out, even, and there were dark circles under his eyes. For a few seconds, she merely stood and studied him, wondering what she was going to say.

"Took you long enough to show up."

Wren's eyes snapped to his face, and though his eyes remained closed, there was a ghost of a smirk on his face.

"Didn't know you were waiting up," Wren gently replied as she neared the bed. "Thought they would have had this place surrounded…given the circumstances." She paused at his bedside and reached a hand out, smoothing it over the short, thick nap of his black hair.

He sighed, pressing his head into her touch, and then reached up and twined his fingers with hers. When he opened his eyes, he faltered, taking in the short dark hair and dramatic makeup. "Wow," he muttered. "You look…" he took a second and traveled over her changed appearance once more. "You look…"

"I look Russian," Wren answered wryly. "Though, I think I kind of like it."

Donahue smirked. "It suits you," he said simply.

"Thanks." Wren gave him a small smile and then looked him over, hospital gown and all. "You look like shit."

Donahue huffed a sigh and shrugged as best he could. "Yeah, that happens when you have a shattered hip. It's a good thing someone called _911_ so quickly," he added, giving her a pointed look.

Wren chuckled darkly, pulling her hand free of his. "It was a tough decision."

Her words hung between them for what seemed like eternity. Then, Donahue spoke.

"I never…I didn't think you'd find out this way."

She scoffed. "Really? Were you going to wait until you had me in handcuffs? Or maybe until I was in a holding cell up in Washington?" She began to pace the small space at the foot of his bed. "How exactly _did_ you see this going?"

"I don't know," Donahue muttered. "But you're here now. You took a risk. Why?"

"I need you to tell me just exactly how much about me is on file. I figure after five years, you're bound to know more about me than I do."

Donahue frowned, looking at his hands. "We know everything."

"Like?"

Again, he sighed, and found Wren's gaze with his own. "You don't want me to sit here and tell you what I know and what I don't know. You want to know what kind of a sentence is lined up for you when we finally bring you in. You want to know if you can make a deal."

"Can I?"

Donahue shook his head. "I don't know."

Wren waved her hand around the room, gesturing to his door. "Well, you obviously have _some_ friends in high places. Your door should be crowded by overzealous Boston PD or at least monitored by a couple of Feds fresh out of the academy. So who did you sell out?"

This made Donahue sneer. "Feds don't sell crooks out. Feds get their men."

"I suppose I was just a bonus?"

"You were on my radar for a very long time, Wren," Donahue admitted. "And then you dropped off. Imagine my surprise when, after being transferred to Boston and working the Irish from the inside, that you, of all people, should turn up again."

Wren stopped her pacing and stared out the window, her arms wrapped around her torso. "So…this whole thing…I mean…it was all lies, wasn't it?" She turned and looked at him from over her shoulder.

"The only thing I ever lied to you about was that I was a Fed. And that wasn't even a lie," Donahue argued softly.

"Lies of omission are still lies," Wren pointed out.

"You're just upset that you didn't figure it out. You're observant; I noted that in your file early on."

Wren bristled at the glib tone of voice and her eyes snapped back to the window. She said nothing.

There was another stretch of silence between them, interrupted only by the steady beep of Donahue's heart monitor.

"Has Monaghan been in contact with you?"

Wren shook her head. "No. No, I haven't seen anyone since the fight."

"You were holed up with MacManus, weren't you?"

"What _is_ your beef with him?"

"I don't trust him."

Wren snorted. "That's rich, coming from you."

"Seriously, Wren, there's things going on that I can't talk about. It could mean more trouble for you…"

Wren raised her hand to silence him. "I can handle it."

"Of course you can," Donahue growled. "All right. Monaghan is searching for you, Gareghty wants you dead, and your dear baby brother is on the hunt."

"And you?" Finally, Wren moved from the window and stood at his side once more, looking down into his dark brown eyes. "What do you have in store for me?"

"You know that when this is over you're going down."

"It's gotta be over, first."

"You're not the type to leave unfinished business, Wren. Just what exactly are you planning?"

Wren smiled and shook her head. She had no clue what Connor had stored in his head, but Donahue didn't need to know that. "I'm sure you'll read about it. Sorry you won't be around to watch the fireworks."

"Me, too," Donahue sighed. When Wren moved to leave, he caught her hand and held it close. "You know…if I could get a deal…anything to help you, I would."

Wren nodded. "I know. Thank you, Ryan." She let her hand slip from his and stepped quietly to the door. "I guess I'll be seeing you."

"I hope so," Donahue answered to an empty room.


	37. Chapter 37

_A/N: These chapters are coming fast and furious...I think I have about five left in me...and at least one of them has to be smut, right? LOL. Valerie E Mackin, I'm no expert on Irish Gaelic, but I think a close pronunciation of the this story's title is 'Yawn B-yaug'. The Lenox Hotel, and the subsuquent Back Bay suite and Solas, is an actual place; Solas means 'comfort' in Irish Gaelic. The Dome Room also exists._

_I own nothing save for my OC's._

* * *

Wren put herself up at the Lenox downtown, a bit of a splurge, but she could afford it. After all, there was a healthy offshore account from her previous activities that allowed her to live in luxury when she saw fit. She had a feeling she wasn't going to get very many more chances, with the rate things were going. The Back Bay suite she occupied was lush, and though she felt safe holed up and ordering ridiculously priced burgers from the room service menu, she also felt incomplete.

The last burger she had was shared with Murphy, back in February, and that seemed like a lifetime ago. She felt her eyes start to prickle, and her throat closed and began to ache. With a growl, she tossed her napkin aside and snatched the bottle of whiskey she'd had sent up upon arrival, and perched on the window seat and looked out onto the darkened skies of Boston. Every so often, her eyes would stray to the phone, and then to the coat she'd borrowed from Pam. The number to Rocco's mum's place was in that coat pocket, and though she wanted to call just to hear Murphy's voice, she didn't know what she would say.

Her eyes landed on the entertainment feature card next to the phone and she reached for it, flipping it open as she swigged casually from the whiskey bottle. There, on the second page, the name _Sólás_ caught her eye, and she smiled as she read the quick synopsis of the traditional Irish pub that was connected to the hotel. No sense in wallowing in her room near the phone with the possibility of drunk dialling someone. She'd go and get drunk with a bunch of strangers, instead.

* * *

_Sólás_ boasted a warm atmosphere, wood old and gilded, a shining bar top, and gleaming taps. _This_ was more like her, anyway, far removed from some posh hotel room. She took a seat smack dab in the middle, still sporting the cropped black wig Pam had outfitted her with. Instead of whiskey, she ordered vodka, top shelf, and as the first shot slid down her throat, she shivered and a swarm of memories flooded her like the spring melt at the IrkutskoyeRiver. She flirted shamelessly with the bartender, surprising herself when the first words she spoke rolled out with a scant Russian accent. It made the bartender blush, and he refilled her drink eagerly, and soon Wren noticed that more than a few male patrons were gravitating towards her.

In the next moment, she felt someone behind her, and she halted all movement and words as a chill ran up her bare spine in warning. Her fingers curled around the shot glass of vodka as the all too familiar voice cut her to the quick.

"So nice to see you back to your old self, _Dominkia_."

The tear that escaped slid down her cheek; it had been more than a decade since she'd heard that name. She didn't bother looking to the man behind her; she'd know her brother's voice anywhere.

"_Kolya_," she smirked softly, using the pet form of Nate's birth name.

She stiffened and her heart leapt into her throat as she felt his fingers snare the short strands of the wig. "I always liked you better like this. You look like mother."

"I'd ask how you found me, but that would be a waste, wouldn't it?"

Nate slid onto the seat next to her and shot a warning glare to the men that still crowded nearby. "Fuck off," he uttered gruffly to the one on his right. "Can't you see that the lady is busy?" When her wannabe suitors had dissipated, he turned back to his sister. "You know I'll always find you, _kroshka_."

Wren drummed her fingers on the bar top before lifting the hand that clutched the shot glass and throwing the vodka down her throat. She flagged the bartender down and ordered two more. "I suppose you're here to take me back to Gareghty? After all, you need to get paid."

She felt Nate shift behind her and her stomach dropped as she felt the very hard, very cold barrel of a gun press into her kidney. Two shots of vodka appeared before her and she stared ahead, her eyes glassy as she dismissed the bartender with a weak smile.

"Fuck Gareghty," Nate whispered, the hush of his words ruffling the short black hair behind her ear. "He thinks I want money." He scoffed darkly. "I have enough money."

Wren swallowed thickly and took a slow, deep breath before asking her next question. "What _do_ you want?"

Still pressing the gun into her back, Nate reached over his sister's shoulder and picked up one of the vodka shots. "_Nastrovia_," Nate offered softly, clicking his glass against the one left before Wren. "Drink up. We'll take a walk."

* * *

Her steps through the lobby were timed, counting the length of the floor, and her eyes scanned the exits, the windows, the emergency stairwells, and the back halls still used by the hotel staff. She counted guests and bellhops, security officers, and began running every escape scenario she could think of through her mind.

The press of the gun in her spine, however, always jerked her back to the present, and Nate hovered behind her, his free hand clutching her shoulder in a heavy, clammy grip. "Good thing I know my sister as well as I know myself," he growled with a sick smile. "Don't try anything. We wouldn't want any innocent bystanders to be shot."

The sound of an overtly chipper voice over a loudspeaker, though muffled, was heard as they passed The Dome Room, and then music began playing. Nate paused and steered his sister towards the sounds. "Remember Aspen, 1993? We crashed a wedding."

Wren heard the gears turning in her brother's mind and she immediately tugged against his hold as he paused outside the doors of The Dome Room. "We're not going in there," she hissed, her blue eyes snapping as she glared back at him.

Nate cocked his head towards the doors and grinned. "Of course we are – listen! They're playing the Chicken Dance. That means that everyone is dancing! Come on, _Dom_, I know how you love dancing." And with that, he swung open one of the double doors and ushered Wren inside. He grinned widely as his prediction was correct: there was a wedding reception in progress, and just about all of the guests were out on the floor, dancing up a clichéd storm.

They hurried past tables, where guests, already knee deep in the open bar, smiled jovially and waved, as if they knew the pair that were slinking through the room. Wren smiled tightly as she passed, her eyes searching for some tear in the seemingly seamless weave of Nate's plan. She wasn't often caught off guard, but she and Nate were of the same mind on some levels.

Some levels, she thought again, but not all. It had been five years since they had worked together. A lot had changed since then. No longer did Wren have a wallflower approach to her work. She did what needed to be done, identity be damned. With that in mind, as they passed the head table, no doubt heading for the kitchen, Wren spotted her opportunity and swiped the cake cutting knife. Twisting in Nate's grip, she swept his leg so that he stumbled back into the decorative wall hangings, and therefore the shadows, and she ground the tip of the knife into the soft spot beneath his jaw.

Nate choked on his breath at first, and Wren watched his eyes widen. He smiled ruefully. "You really want to do this here?" he hissed. The fingers holding the gun flexed and he jammed the barrel in to her ribs.

"I stab you," Wren started slowly, "and you'll simply slump over here in the corner, and someone will think you had too much champagne. You shoot me, and we'll have widespread panic."

Nate grinned. "We wouldn't want that, would we? Still, I think this party could use some livening up." With that, he knocked her back, batting the knife from his throat and sending her sailing into the chair of a groomsman. She crashed into it, sending said groomsman into the table, and taking out an adjacent bridesmaid. Screams of surprise and offence rose immediately, and Wren used the momentum to flip over the table and land on the other side, putting the wedding party between her and her brother.

"Terribly sorry," Wren muttered to the bride and groom. "Family dispute. I'm sure you'll have your share."

Nate was already rushing the table and he used the back of a bridesmaid's chair to lever himself up and onto the table, crashing into the duck confit and bib lettuce salad that was laid there. Dishes crashed, more screaming erupted, and all amidst the lively polka of the Chicken Dance, Nate flew off of the table and snatched at Wren.

She twisted away and wove into the gathering crowd, pushing past layers of tulle and silk and tuxedoes, until she was standing in front of the emergency exit door. She crashed through the door, and sure enough, the alarm that the warning label hinted at, went off, and panic erupted in the grand ball room behind her.

The stairwell was dimly lit, painted pristine white, and boasted stairs going up and down. Nate would automatically think she would go down, searching for a way to leave the building entirely. She chose up and toed her heels off, stealing the steps in twos, her feet landing softly, her breathing even. Below her, perhaps three floors down, she heard the door crash open and she paused, plastering herself against the wall and holding her breath. She knew it was Nate down there, weighing his options, and her heart sank as she heard him start the climb up as well.

She pushed on, keeping away from the railing, and when she reached the fifth floor, she slipped into the hallway and took the elevator up another two floors. Then, she headed for the stairs once more, and climbed another two floors, putting her on the ninth floor, her floor, and about twenty feet from her room.

Wren slipped down the hallway in silence, her heels clutched in one hand, the fancy silver knife in the other. Her blood thundered in her ears and her eyes swept back and forth, looking for any sign that Nate was close at hand. She'd always been faster than him. When she reached the door that read _908_ she stopped and reached into the front of her dress for the key card to her room.

As she closed the door behind her, she was immediately on alert. Something wasn't right. Someone else was in the room with her. Her breath caught as the lamp near the window clicked on, and Nate stood and grinned at her.

"Creature of habit," he muttered, picking the gun up from the table. "Somewhat poetic, though."

"What are you talking about?" Wren asked tightly as her brain scrambled for a plan of action. She sagged back against the door, slipping the hand that held the knife behind her back and sliding the blade down into the back of her dress. She kept her hand there, the high heels dangling from the tips of the fingers on her other hand.

Nate smirked. "All these years," he sighed with a shake of his head.

She could hear the Russian accent creeping back into his words; it didn't surprise her that he switched to their native language in the next sentence.

"_September 8. Don't you remember? I do._"

Wren froze. Of course she knew the date – that had been the day Arkady had taken her out to the woods, the old Mauser he'd used in World War Two slung over one shoulder, and a duffle with survival necessities in the other. She'd waited two days in that hunting blind. On the third, she'd shot her father.

"_You don't know what you're talking about,_" Wren rattled off in Russian.

Nate bared his teeth, and the arm that held the gun stiffened as he waved the barrel under her nose. "_I know __**exactly**__ what I'm talking about. Grandfather took you into that forest and when you came out, our family had been destroyed!_"

The sudden rise in the volume of her brother's voice caused her to flinch and her stomach plummeted. "_No one knew. Not even mother_."

"_Mother knew. I knew it, too! Mother was happy, and I hated her for that! I hated you – I still do._" His voice wavered to a hoarse whisper, darkened by years of perceived betrayal. "_You asked me what I want, Dominika. I want satisfaction for his death._" He cocked the hammer of the gun. "_I want my father back._"

* * *

Agent Smecker stood outside of the Lenox, on the Back Bay side, staring up at the ninth floor window where the curtains billowed out. With a sigh, he glanced back down and frowned at the body at his feet. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, he signalled to one of the crime scene unit and together, they drew back the sheet and began a preliminary examination.

Smecker noted the puncture wound in the back of the victim's right hand. About seven feet away, first response had discovered a SIG Sauer, loaded and recently fired. Smecker immediately ordered prints to be pulled from the gun, and motioned to the CSI officer to print the victim as soon as possible.

"Cause of death was the fall?" Smecker asked listlessly as he lit a cigarette and watched the officer take prints from the right hand.

The officer smirked and shook his head, pulling the sheet back. "I'm going with this."

Smecker gaped at the fancy handled silver knife sticking out from between the fourth and fifth ribs at un upward angle – directly into the heart.

"The fall merely sped things up," the crime scene unit officer continued. He wrinkled his nose and gestured to the large patch of blood that had pooled around the body. "All though it made an awful mess."

Smecker nodded in agreement and lifted the lapel on the victim's jacket. He felt inside, pulling out a money clip and a card holder. Flipping the latter open, he came upon a photo ID card and read it out loud: "Nathaniel Abernathy. DOB September 8, 1974." Smecker frowned again. "Nathaniel Abernathy," he repeated, more to himself. He pulled out his notebook and scribbled down the name before standing and moving to the first response officers.

"Any witnesses? Any body see what happened?"

The officer he spoke to, a young woman named O'Riley, shrugged and nodded up to the room. "Room was occupied by one Dominika Volkova. Front desk clerk that checked her in described her as about five foot six or so, a hundred and ten pounds, short black hair, dark eyes."

"Has anyone been up to the room yet?"

O'Riley shook her head. "No, sir. We figured it would be best if you were the first one up there." She gave him a solid smile.

Smecker nodded. "Thank you, officer. At least there are some brains within the Boston PD." He turned back to the hotel and pulled out his notebook again, scribbling down the second name below the first.

"Agent Smecker?" O'Riley called out, moving through the crowd of EMTs and cops.

"Yes, officer?" Smecker turned to her and looked at her expectantly.

"There was a wedding here tonight. About ten o'clock, Boston FD was called to the Dome Room. Apparently the emergency exit had been tripped, setting off the fire alarms."

Smecker's eyes narrowed and he pulled out his notebook again. "Which ladder?"

O'Riley pulled out her own notebook, and Smecker had to smile. She'd do well in her chosen profession. She flipped a few pages. "Uh…seventeen, sir. There was no fire, but the bride and groom complained of a couple crashing their reception?"

Smecker was bouncing on his toes. "Are they staying here?" he blurted out.

O'Riley nodded. "The Eriksons. Room 1500 – Honeymoon Suite."

"O'Riley, you ever have to go out and get coffee for the jackasses in your precinct?"

She rolled her eyes and chuckled as she replaced her notebook. "All the time, sir."

Smecker nodded and handed her his card. "When you get sick of doing that, give me a call."


	38. Chapter 38

_A/N: Many thanks to pitbullsrok who takes the time in her busy days to look over my stuff and tell me if something needs to be tweaked or added. I appreciate that you've been along for the ride this far, and I look forward to your future writing! You may want to find that econo size pack of kleenex...you're going to start using it by the end of this, I think..._

_Also special thanks to those who have PM'd me with praise for my writing, and this story in particular. I don't write for reviews but when I get them, or I get wonderful messages from my readers, it makes it all that much sweeter. Manna from heaven, people!_

_I finished off this chapter listening to "The Walker of the Snow" (written by Charles Dawson Shanly) as sung by Davy Spillane. The poem itself is quite beautiful; put to music it choked me up all kinds a crazy._

_Side note: Sean Patrick Flanery AND Norman Reedus are coming to ComicCon in my town this spring and I am so pumped. I almost DON'T want to go for fear of appearing as a 33 year old fangirl who says something incredibly stupid...but I figure if I made a latte for Harrison Ford and took Ryan Reynold's drink order when I was a bartender, and I didn't fuck either of them up, I'm good to go._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Murphy woke with a start. It was well after midnight; he and Roc and Connor had crashed hard after the job at the Sin Bin. He didn't know what had woken him – not at first, anyway. He thought it was the unfamiliar surrounding, or maybe the fact that Connor wasn't sleeping directly beside him. As he blinked the sleep from his eyes, a shadow moved before him and he stifled a gasp as he scrambled for his gun.

"It's me," Wren's voice came from the dark.

Murphy relaxed almost immediately, sagging back against the pillow with a sign. "Jayzus, Mary, n'Joseph, girl, ya could've been shot," he muttered.

"Not likely," Wren scoffed, clicking on a lamp and holding out Murphy's gun. "Rocco's mum has shit for security in this place."

Murphy opened his mouth to respond, but his eyes fell on her short black hair and he could only gape at her new look. Then he _really_ looked at her: she seemed tired, worn down, and she was holding her side as she crossed the room and set his gun down on the dresser.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm lookin' at a ghost?"

Her smile is faint in the dim lamp light and she gently sets his gun aside. "What do you mean?"

Murphy scowls slightly and stands, gesturing at the slinky black dress, the three inch heels, the short, black hairstyle. "Thought ya said this girl was dead?"

Her face burns as if he's slapped her and she looks away, chewing on her lip. "Sometimes, things linger on," she answers softly, as if to herself. She can feel his eyes burning her as she stands beneath his scrutiny. She's never felt so stripped so quickly before. "Sometimes, things don't stay dead, even though they're supposed to."

Murphy pauses at the edge in her voice, at the accent creeping back in, and it is as cold and harsh as its origins.

"Y'all right?" he ventured quietly, watching as she shed the trench coat and left it in a heap on the floor next to his jeans.

She nodded firmly. "I think so." Her voice was solid.

Murphy nodded with her. "What are ya doin' here?"

She shrugged, reaching behind her to the zipper of her dress. She let the black silk pool at her feet, leaving her in the tiniest scrap of dark blue silk that she was trying to pass off as underwear. Bless her for having small tits and not needing a bra. Murphy licked his lips unconsciously, waiting for Wren's answer.

"My reservations at the Lenox fell through," she chuckled softly. Her blue eyes flickered over his prone form, clad only in boxers, the sheets kicked off to the bottom of the bed. She quirked an eyebrow. "And I missed you something terribly." She reached to dislodge the wig when Murphy stopped her.

"Leave it," he heard himself say.

Wren stared at him with wide eyes, as surprised at his words as he apparently was. Her hands slowly slid from the nape of her neck down her torso to rest on her hips. "Really?" she purred. She began to toe off her heels.

"Leave those, too," Murphy added hoarsely.

She smirked, settling back in the three inch platforms. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

"Can't let ya have all tha mystery," he purred back. He shoved himself to his feet and moved to where she stood. He didn't hesitate before kissing her.

* * *

When his lips touch hers, she decides that his kiss will be what she will miss the most. She knows their time is fleeting; she'd said as much the night they first met.

The first smooth caress of Murphy's tongue against hers brings her back to the moment; her heartbeat skitters as he nibbles her bottom lip. His fingertips glide over her shoulders and trace each bump of vertebrae. When he finds the dimples on either side of her tailbone, he lifts his head and searches her eyes with his.

He smiles, and it is soft and somewhat sad. Gently, he cups her face, tracing her cheeks with this thumbs. "Somethin' wrong, girl?"

Wren's throat twinges at the gentle glide of his voice and she shakes her head, forcing a smile. "Nothing that can't wait," she answers throatily.

This makes Murphy smirk and the angle of his lips heats the blood in Wren's veins. She reaches for him, combing her fingers through his dark hair and tugging at his shoulders.

He hisses, jerking with hot pain as she palms the bandage on his upper arm. With a grunt, he pulls back, and smiles tightly.

Wren scowls at the blood-tinged gauze wrapped just around his bicep and her blue eyes sail to his.

"Had ta cauterize it," he explains.

Wren's frown deepens and she tugs an end of the bandage back, inspecting the reddened, raised flesh. "With _what_, exactly?"

Murphy shrugs, grinning slightly. "An iron."

Wren winces and replaces the bandage. "Jesus," she mutters, "it's a miracle you boys still have all of your appendages."

At this, Murphy ruffles the hair on the back of his head and gives a nervous chuckle.

"Connor?" Wren asks hurriedly.

"He's fine," Murphy assures her. "We both are. Though, Rocco lost a finger."

Wren cocks a wary eyebrow. "Something you need to tell me, Murph?"

He closes the distance between them once m ore and lets his mouth hover over hers for a spell. "Nuttin' dat can't wait," he breathes.

He floods her senses as his lips touch hers in the next second. He swallows her moan as he pulls her closer. He curves a palm over her ass, squeezing and hitching her center against the solid length of his erection. She lets him lift her, shift her weight back, and drop her to the bed before crawling over her.

Her legs hitch over his hips and she greedily takes kiss after kiss, letting herself get close to lost in his taste. Murphy's mouth moves to everywhere else, biting a path to her neck, his tongue winding along her jaw to just below her ear because he knows it makes her pant. His hands are not idle, skating along her naked ribs, her belly and thighs, purposely ignoring her breasts so that she arches into him, grinding the hard peaks of her nipples into his pecs, searching for some relief. He loves the feel of her skin against his and he'd venture to say that she's the same, as her palms map every hard cord of muscle, every scar, every angle of bone and swath of soft skin that hasn't seen the summer sun. Her tongue rasps against his beard and her fingernails bite into his scalp and his back.

He situates a hand between them, fluttering along her flanks, teasing her navel before palming the soft swell of her belly with a warm touch. His fingertips skip lower, tugging the front of her panties down, sliding around to do the same to the back, and when he's made enough room, he pushes his hand inside. When his tongue finally wraps with hers again, his fingers part her, slick and slippery, and he finds her clit with his thumb and finds her more than ready with his middle and ring fingers. She's so tight; she's always tight, and it makes him believe that she is just for him, and she's always been just for him. Her heat and wetness brand him, and he didn't think it possible to grow any harder, but more blood rushes south, and it's so fast it's painful, and he knows that the only relief he'll have is deeply seated within her.

Pulling from her mouth, he dives down, and his tongue slides up between the small, firm peaks of her breasts. He tastes salt and a heady, sweet flavour of some perfume she's never worn before. Moving to one side, he pulls a nipple between his lips, sucking firm and steady, and he can feel her heart hammering just under her skin. Gnawing on the peak, his fingers pull its twin to attention, and soon enough he's switching back and forth, mouth and teeth and tongue and thumb and forefinger blurring as she burns hotter and hotter beneath him.

She's close to cumming already. She wants him to stop, wants him inside of her that first time, but his hands are so strong, and always have been, and he's the only one who has ever been able to reach this part of her. It sends her soaring, heart and body, and as she twists and keens beneath him, he groans and kisses her again, grinding his hard cock into her thigh. He is panting, he wants her so badly, and even as she still clamps down on his fingers, her hands slip into his boxers, tugging at the waistband with one hand while the other palms the hard column of muscle. Her movements are clumsy, brought on by too much lust too quickly, but she's so far gone she doesn't care and she knows by the way he's softly moaning that he couldn't give a flying fuck that she's less than graceful at this moment. His cock twinges as she squeezes, and he groans again before slipping his tongue into her mouth as her thumb glides through the clear evidence of his preparedness that weeps at the tip.

She whimpers his name against his lips and looks up, eyes blue and wide and darkly endless. Together, they work her panties all the way down, and move his boxers enough that he can lift himself out. Hands working simultaneously, they both hold him steady against her, slicking the head up and down through her arousal until they are panting madly, breathing each others breath and tasting one another on the scant air between them.

His dark head tilts down, his lean hips roll forward and Wren's breath catches in her throat as the first solid, scalding inches of Murphy slowly slide inside, scraping her nerves. The only thing clear in her mind is the sudden hitch in Murphy's breath and the glorious tight tingle between her thighs and behind her ribs. He pauses, a shuddering breath leaves him, and he looks down at her with wide eyes and a mouth open in awe. He finds one of her hands with his own and stretches it up and over her head before winding their fingers together. His other hand pulls her leg up so that he catches the back of her knee. He sinks down to the bottom in one full movement and Wren's eyelids flutter as her fingers grip his, and he is certain that the sound she makes is permanently etched in his auditory memory. He is certain that she can be heard clear across Southie.

He doesn't care. Wanting to hear it again, harsher, higher, more desperate, he draws his hips back and plunges forth again, and she does not disappoint, another breathless cry of ecstasy bursting from her lungs and hanging on the charged air around them. She hisses, canting her hips up, wanting all of him, so much of him that it's making her crazy. She moves restlessly beneath him, and, as if on cue, he cups her hip and deftly rolls them so that she swings up in his lap and her hands land heavily on his chest.

Her mouth is a tiny, perfect 'o' and her hips roll gently against his as she adjusts to this new position. Leveraging herself on his chest, her hips push back and she tilts down until…_there_. Now he's pressed against her, bruising her from the inside, and the drag and draw and resulting electrical charge makes her skin tingle. Her toes curl in her shoes.

He pulls her forward as he bucks beneath her, drawing her into a hard and fast canter that makes the bed frame rattle against the wall and floor. Neither care; they are too caught up in one another to think of much else, save for the blinding pleasure churning where they are joined. She can't deny that he is it for her, not any more, and as Murphy leans up and hooks an arm around her hips and another around her shoulders, she feels anchored, at last, amidst the tumultuous storm that has always been her life. Her hands cling to his glistening skin; his mouth utters both prayer and plea against her body. With a well timed hand, Murphy touches her, drawing out a climax that makes her shake and shudder above him. Seconds later, he follows, and they are both limp as he collapses back and takes Wren with him. Still joined, they drift, and ebb and flow. His fingers toy with the short, dark strands of the wig and she shakes her head until she is free of it. Her breathing steadies upon his chest, warm air puffing softly along his cooling skin. They move finally, but only to smoke and drink the whiskey that is beside the bed. They don't talk, but rather fall into comfortable silence, and then sleep.

* * *

_He knew he was dreaming because he was in Ireland. It was a vivid dream, too: he could smell thick peat and wood smoke; taste the heavy, damp cloak of cool fog, and see the impossible green of grass and the gunmetal grey of a low sky._

_He could hear the distant bleating of sheep. Through the rustling of the overhead budding branches, he heard something else: the sweet, clear, mellow call of a wren._

_"Goin' ta find 'er?" Connor's voice asked._

_Murphy turned and was puzzled by his twin's fourteen year old image. The question hung between them and Connor merely grinned and nodded to a thicket of honeysuckle just over the clearing where they stood. "Sounds like she broke a wing."_

_Murphy blinked and watched fourteen year old Connor turn to the woods and take off, his straw blond hair ruffled by the wind._

_"Conn!" he called weakly, trying in vain to will his legs to work and chase after his twin._

_"Gotta find 'er first, Murph," Connor called out in Gaelic from over his shoulder. He then disappeared behind one of the many standing stones._

"Wren!" Murphy surged to the surface of his dream, gasping her name in the dark and gray of Mrs. Della Rocco's guest room. His hand shot out immediately and landed on the warm curve of Wren's shoulder.

"Hail Mary," he whispered before taking a deep breath to steady his rapid heart beat. He looked to Wren once more, and found her sleeping soundly, more so than he'd ever seen before. Usually, she was tense, with clenched fists and jaw and a furrowed brow. Now, she was lax, smooth and young and untouched by everything that was crashing down around her. His thumb rubbed over the freckles on her shoulder and when a small smile curved her lips, he choked on his breath and felt his eyes prickle. With a huff, he swung his legs out of bed and leaned his head into his hands for spell.

_"Gotta find 'er first, Murph._" Connor's words from his dream swirled in his head as he fumbled in the dark for his cigarettes. When his fingers fell on something decidedly…_hairy_, he bit back a curse and yanked his hand back with a start, and then flicked on the lamp.

Wren's wig lay on the table. Just beneath the short, black strands, he could make out the red and white of his Marlboros. Murphy wrinkled his nose and plucked the thing up, snaring the cigarettes with his other hand. He took both the wig and the smokes with him, leaving Wren to sleep. He didn't think he was going to fall back asleep easily.

He found Connor in the kitchen – not surprising; Connor hadn't slept well as of late, his thoughts turning to Pam more and more. Currently, the fairer MacManus was sitting with his feet propped on the kitchen table, a smoke in one hand and a bottle of Guinness in the other. When Murphy entered, Connor didn't seem surprised, and instead moved one foot to shove a chair out as invitation to his twin.

"Can't sleep?" Connor asked in a smoke-hoarse voice.

"Aye," Murphy mumbled, flopping to the chair.

Connor moved from the table to the fridge, and came back with a pair of beers. He cracked them open and handed one off to Murphy, who was lighting a cigarette. It was then that Connor noticed the wig that Murphy had set on the table. He pointed at it with his own cigarette.

"'Tha fuck is that?"

Murphy smiled to himself and fingered the dark strands almost thoughtfully. "A ghost," he answered softly.

Connor scowled and leaned across the table, snatching the thing up. "Tis' a wig."

"Aye," Murphy nodded. "Wren's."

The mention of her name made him raise an eyebrow. "She's here?"

Murphy nodded, taking another long drag of his cigarette.

"How tha hell did she get in?"

Murphy shot his brother a smirk and merely tilted his head, silently asking if he was being serious.

"She just gets more and more interestin'," Connor amended. He twirled the wig in his hands. "So, what, she's wearin' disguises now?"

"Can't blame tha girl," Murphy said. He cleared his throat and leaned forward. "Can I ask ya something, Conn?"

Connor set the wig aside and leaned into his brother, mirroring him in every way. "Of course."

"We're not gonna make it, are we? Me an' Wren."

Connor paused and looked down to the burning ember of his cigarette, before rubbing a hand over his mouth. He sucked at his cigarette for a moment before speaking. "D'ya remember when we were lads? Bout thirteen or so? We was out walkin' in the pasture when ya came across that injured bird. Ya took it home ta Ma. She told ya the wing was broken. Bird was so small, there was no way ta help tha poor ting. Best ting ta do, Ma said, was ta set it out free an' let it take care o' itself."

Murphy sat and listened to Connor's story, and the memory his twin spoke of started to form from murky, watercolored depths. "Aye," Murphy said slowly, with a nod. "I do remember that."

Connor smiled fondly at his brother. "Tha next mornin', tha bird was gone." He chuckled, shaking his head. "You were heartbroken."

Murphy laughed, too. "An' ya said ta me, 'Murph, there's no use ta cryin'. Dat bird went an' did what it needed ta do. T'was lucky ta know ya an' yer hands." He looked up from where he absently peeled the label from the beer bottle and fixed Connor with his deep blue gaze.

Connor stared back. "She was," he replied solemnly.

Murphy nodded once more and took a healthy swig of his beer, trying anything to quell the ache that was starting. He felt rather than saw Connor move, and soon enough, the brothers were sitting side by side. "Tis a hard ting ta swallow, brudder," Connor murmured softly. Murphy did not answer.

After a few minutes, when their cigarettes were through and the beer was almost gone, Connor cleared his throat and stood, pausing at the kitchen door. "There's only one thing ya can do, Murph."

Murphy smiled ruefully at the table and then turned to Connor. "Aye? An' what's that?"

Connor grinned rakishly. "Ya get back in that room and ya fuck her senseless till tha sun comes up."

Murphy laughed at his brother's lewd – but not entirely horrid – suggestion. "That so?"

Connor shrugged. "Spoonful o' sugar an' all that. After all, ya still got time. Don't waste it."

So Murphy wakes her with his mouth between her thighs. He can taste himself though he does not care, and he works to bring her to one sobbing finish after another. Then, when she is boneless and pliable, he climbs her body and turns her beneath him, his cock hot and hard against the soft flesh of her ass. Lifting her just enough, he mounts her once more, the angle tighter, her nerves on fire. This time, there is little movement, save for the gentle push of his hips and hers jutting back softly in reply. Her fingers curl into the sheets beneath her; his teeth leave marks on the back of her neck and his fingers snare her hair. It is lazy but no less satisfying, and now they sleep well into daylight.

* * *

Later that next day, Connor watches with interest as his brother and Wren move around each other in perfect unison as they fix coffee and something to eat in Mrs. Della Rocco's kitchen. Usually, those in sync moments, rhythm and time, are reserved for him and Murphy, so it is a curious sight to see. He smokes, and lets his mind wander to the half baked plan in his mind. He's decided an ambush in a restaurant is the best, but which one?

When Rocco calls Murphy to the other room, Connor moves and grabs a mug, snagging coffee for himself before it is all gone. He sips in silence for a moment, watching Wren over the rim of his cup.

"You're staring," Wren mumbles as she places the cream back in the fridge. "What's up?"

Connor rubs his chin thoughtfully. "I'm thinkin' about how we're gonna make this all go down. Gareghty, and Monaghan, as it were."

"And?" Wren asks, glancing back to Connor. "What have you come up with?"

"I need a place that you won't be expected at. I'll figure out how to deal with yer brudder…"

"He's been taken care of," Wren offers freely, taking a large gulp of coffee from her mug and moving to the table. She wrinkles her nose at the slight discoloration of bloodstains on the Formica, but ignores it. She's seen a lot of blood in her time and one red-tinged patch of plastic isn't a concern.

"What's that?" Connor asks as he slides into a seat across from her.

Wren is silent as she flips the pages of the newspaper to the breaking news section. She then turns it towards Connor and taps a black and white of The Lenox and a story beneath.

"_Man with Connections to Irish Mob Falls to Death at Iconic Boston Hotel_," he reads aloud. He quirks an eyebrow at Wren. "Anything to do with you?"

She rubs a chip in the mug with her thumb and shrugs. "It's not easy killing your own brother. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. But I was out on a limb, so to speak, and he never did pull punches." Shaking her head, she looks once more at Connor. "A sushi restaurant."

He scowls, a little confused. "Eh?"

"You need a place to take these motherfuckers down? A sushi restaurant. Gareghty thinks I have a shellfish allergy."

"Do you?" Connor asks.

She shakes her head. "No. I grew up in a fishing village. I dare say mercury is in my blood," she laughs.

Connor thinks about it for a moment and then pulls out the phone book from a stand next to the table. He flips to the appropriate section, drawing his finger down the list of names until he finds one he's looking for. "Now let's hope they can accommodate us." He winks, and picks up the phone.


	39. Chapter 39

_A/: So, I realized that I have my BDS timeline a little skewed here. Last chapter I mentioned the job at the Sin Bin and Murphy cauterizing his wound with an iron, which we all know happens after the poker game hit. Can't go back and fix that, just deal with it, no one has mentioned it, but I thought I'd clear that up. There is mention of the poker game hit here. This is a little bit of fluff and little bit of filler._

_Oh, and my word processor gave me a message the other night about the document being too long to continue with the auto spell check / grammar check. My grammar is usually spot on, but if there are any spelling mistakes, that's why...stupid uncooperative computer..._

* * *

Rocco and Muprhy had disappeared in the late afternoon and had returned with, surprise of all surprises, pizza and beer. The four were now crowded around Rocco's mother's table, and the air was thick with the haze of cigarettes. Two empty pizza boxes had been tossed haphazardly to the sink, and the third box was halfway done when whe boys finally pushed it aside. Wren had filled the cracks with beer, mostly, nibbling from Murphy's plate off and on.

"So…Pam helped ya out?"

Wren nodded, sipping from her third beer, and took the cigarette the Connor offered. "She didn't ask very many questions. I get the feeling that she's almost come to terms with it…so long as she doesn't know the details. Probably so she doesn't have to lie if she's ever asked."

Connor smiled to himself. "Smart woman."

Wren shrugged. "I guess. I mean, she did go for the _younger_ twin."

Murphy sputtered beside her and let out a loud guffaw while Connor merely narrowed his blue eyes at her. "Oh, aye, ya think yer clever, do ya?"

Wren winked and jabbed her thumb in Murphy's direction. "Older twin."

"Ah, fuck you," Connor huffed, lighting a cigarette.

"I'm under the distinct impression that you haven't talked to her yet," Wren said a few moments later.

Connor had the decency to look slightly ashen at Wren's comment and he shrugged lamely. "Not exactly."

"Have you tried?"

He made a tight expression and glanced at Murphy, and then to Rocco, before looking back to Wren. "Been kinda busy."

Wren smiled and reached a hand out, snagging the handset to the cordless phone and holding it out to Connor. "Not too busy now."

Connor looked to his twin. "She's right nosy, aye?"

Murphy shrugged and threw an arm over her shoulders, nicking her cigarette in the process. "Aye, but she's mine." He took the phone from Wren and pushed it across the table to Connor. "Just call her, aye? What's tha worst that can happen?"

Connor blew out a stream of smoke and stared at the handset. "She can hang up on me."

Murphy shrugged. "So?"

"She can chew me out, tell me she never wants ta see me again…"

"I asked her, you know, if she would ever talk to you again. She said she didn't know. So while you're sitting here wondering what she'll do when you call, she's wondering the same thing. That's got to count for something."

Connor peered at Wren. "How do you figure?"

She took her smoke from Murphy's mouth and puffed on it for a moment. "You're both thinking about each other. I get the feeling that if Pam was over you, she wouldn't give you a second thought."

"Call her," Murphy urged softly.

Rocco chimed in. "Call her, you pussy. Don't make me bitch slap you."

"Fuck you, you fuckin' wop," Connor shot back gruffly. He took up the phone in his hand and stared at the buttons. He began to dial before he looked up and shot Rocco, Wren, and Murphy a pointed glare. "Can't a lad get any privacy?"

Rocco chuckled and stood up, tucking the pizza box under his arm, while Murphy gathered the beer and Wren gathered the cigarettes. On his way out, Muprhy slid a half full bottle of whiskey to his brother.

"I think you'll need it," he shrugged.

Connor stared at it and twisted the cap off seconds later, and took two long slugs. "Aye," he rasped. He set the bottle down and continued to dial.

* * *

"We've got another job," Rocco announced as Connor appeared in the living room half an hour later.

Connor seemed distracted and only nodded.

Murphy glanced at Rocco and shrugged, and then looked to his twin, switching to Gaelic. "_Did you talk to her?_"

"_I did, actually._"

"_So, she didn't hang up._"

"_She threatened to._"

Murphy laughed and winked reassuredly at Wren. "_So where does this leave you two?_"

Connor sighed and looked to Wren. "She agreed to a drink," he admitted, turning back to English.

"It's a start," Wren pointed out.

"Aye," Connor nodded again. He glanced back to Rocco. "Did you say something about a job?"

Rocco grinned. "Bet your ass I did. You'll love it – this guy is a real sick fuck. A real psycho."

Connor nodded as he collapsed on the couch on Wren's opposite side and lit a cigarette. "Right." He blew out a stream of smoke. "It's goin' ta hafta wait, Roc."

Rocco frowned. "What tha fuck for?" He let out a nervous chuckle. "I mean, the guy is a lowlife – took out an entire family in one evening: husband, wife, two kids."

Connor and Murphy both winced, but Connor was adamant. "I'm sorry, Roc. I hear what yer sayin'. But there's something else we hafta do first."

Rocco sighed and sagged back into the armchair he occupied, and lit a cigarette. "Fine. What is so important to you two assholes that this has to wait?"

Murphy stabbed his cigarette out and looked Rocco dead in the eye. "We're takin' down Irish town, my friend."

Rocco choked on smoke and sputtered, looking between the three people that sat on his mother's couch. "Ya fuckin' serious?"

Connor narrowed his eyes at Rocco. "Does tha pope wear a funny hat?"

* * *

If spending the night in Rocco's rather odd company meant more time with Murphy, Wren would force herself to do it. As it was, Connor had disappeared, and now Wren was curled into the corner of the couch, Murphy was stretched down the length of it with his head in her lap, and Rocco was glued to the television, some episode of _Cops_.

"These guys should have you two fuckin' Micks on here," Rocco crowed as he started bopping his head with the theme song.

Murphy snorted and rolled his eyes up to Wren's. He winked and gave her half a grin.

"Ah, you're not even fuckin' listening," Rocco grumbled. "Should have known that would happen with that one around." He jerked his thumb in Wren's direction.

"Ya can leave," Murphy suggested brightly from where he sprawled. "I won't mind." He looked back up to Wren. "Will ya mind, girl?"

Wren shrugged and glanced to Rocco. "Sounds all right to me," she said lightly.

Rocco narrowed his eyes at the pair. "Fuck both of ya," he growled before standing. "Fine," he huffed. "It's only my mother's house, but nooo, you two get to order me around. Whatever," he pouted. He shuffled to the door. "Need more beer anyway," he grumbled, slipping on his boots. Pulling open the door, the Funny Man looked back at the pair now perched expectantly on his couch. He sighed, ran a hand through the tangled mess of his hair, and then pointed a stern finger at them both. "Just…don't make a mess," he muttered. The door slammed shut behind him.

"Thas tha best part!" Murphy called out with a laugh.

"Fuck you!" came Rocco's muffled reply.

Wren rolled her eyes at the banter and stood from the couch, trailing to the kitchen. Murphy scrambled up off the couch to follow her, draining the last of his beer. He stopped in the doorway and leaned, watching as Wren searched through the cupboards and fridge once more.

"Ya cookin' again?"

Wren shrugged, glancing at him from over the refrigerator door. "Got a better idea?"

Murphy's face split with his grin and he pushed off the wall, stalking through the kitchen until he stood right behind Wren. "Got a few," he murmured, sliding a hand over her hip as she bent into the fridge and explored the contents. He grinned when he heard a clatter from inside of the fridge.

Wren stood and spun, catching her balance on the fridge door. She raised an eyebrow. "Really?" She shifted on her toes and gnawed on her bottom lip while looking up at the man before her. "You sure you're not hungry?"

Murphy nodded, pulled Wren from the fridge, slammed the door behind her, and then lifted her against it. "Aye, girl. Starvin'," he grinned.

She gasped when he lifted her, but her legs wound around his hips as her hands steadied around his shoulders. With a resigned sigh, she leaned her head back and allowed Murphy to trail his lips from her chin to her collarbone, gnawing gently on her skin as he went. Her hips rocked against him and he purred, cupping her ass with one hand and pressing her further back into the fridge with his pelvis.

"This is a pleasant fiction," Wren murmured, stroking her fingertips through Murphy's dark hair.

"Don't," he whispered before lifting his head and looking into her eyes. "This is you an' me, right here, an' now. I don't care about what happened yesterday, an' I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow." He cut off anything she might say with a firm, languid kiss. Connor had been right on the money that morning; Murphy didn't want to waste any time they had left.

Wren could feel the urgency in Murphy's kiss, combined with his heat. Gone were his smooth, precise movements. They had been replaced by feverent hands pulling at the hem of her T-shirt, shoving it up under her armpits when he couldn't get it to go any further. She giggled as he held her up with one hand and his other desperately tugged at his own sweater, and then moved to help him, sensing his determination. When he was rid of the worn sweater, he dove back in, pouring every ounce of passion into his kiss. It rocked her to the core and made her pant when he broke away.

"Hurry," she whined, snaking a clever hand down his belly and pulling apart the button fly of his jeans.

Murphy merely nodded mutely, his eyes dark and wild, and he shimmied his hips free of his jeans and boxers, groaning as his erection sprung free into the cool air of the kitchen. Wren's jeans proved to be a little more difficult, both using a hand to tug at the denim while they cursed and laughed at the situation.

"Did ya weld em' on?" Murphy growled, practically tearing the button free.

"No," Wren grunted, pushing her hips away from the fridge in an attempt to slide her jeans down. She wobbled in Murphy's grip and yelped as his footing began to slip.

"Fuck!" Murphy yelped as he slid back, taking Wren with him.

They landed in a heap on the linoleum, Murphy taking the brunt of the fall. He opened his eyes to a curtain of pale blonde, and Wren's dark blue eyes sparkling down at him. "This works too," he announced before wrapping his hands about her waist and scooping her jeans down her hips.

"Hmm," was her only reply. Then her panties were gone, followed by her shirt, until she was blessedly naked above him.

Seconds later, their limbs were tangled and straining.


	40. Chapter 40

"Hi."

Pam's hazel eyes sailed up from the magazine she was flipping through and stared at Connor. "Hi," she breathed softly.

Connor gestured to the seat next to her. "Can I sit?"

Pam shrugged and then nodded, shifting her jacket to the back of her chair. She watched as he climbed onto the stool and flagged down the bartender, ordering a beer with a friendly smile. Then, he was looking right at her and Pam sat to attention, opening and closing her mouth, feeling silly for getting caught staring at him.

Because really…they weren't exactly on staring terms…were they? She sighed and drained the last of her martini, signalling for another round.

"What have ya got goin' on in that glass?" Connor asked politely before sipping off of his beer.

"Dirty martini," Pam replied, plucking the tiny plastic sword out of the glass and munching on the olives.

Connor made a face. "Still can't drink whiskey?"

Pam sighed fondly and shook her head. "It's not that I _can't_. It's that I _won't_. Nothing good ever comes from it."

Connor was silent for a moment, staring into his beer. "I recall several shots of Jameson that night you an' I…" he gestured between them. "You know."

Pam arched her eyebrow, still staring at her glass. "The night we fucked?"

He sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. "Yer not gonna make this easy, are ya?"

Pam fiddled with the sword. "Why should I?"

"Look, I'm makin' an effort here, Pamela. You could at least do me tha same courtesy."

She dropped the sword and swung her gaze towards the Irishman beside her. "You're the one that wanted to meet for a drink," she shrugged. "I assumed it was because you wanted to talk. So, talk."

Connor sniffed and took another chug of beer before setting the glass down. He fished out his cigarettes and lit one, chuffing on it thoughtfully for a moment. "M'sorry about gettin' ya involved. I never meant for that…for any of this…ta happen. Believe me, lass, I didn't wake up one morning in October and decide 'taday, I'm goin' ta ruin' a beautiful woman's life.'" He grinned, more to himself, and continued. "I woke up and decided that I needed new jeans." He glanced at her from under his furrowed brows. "You were a gift with purchase."

She cursed the blush she felt heating her cheeks. Damn him and his Irish charm. She afforded him the tiniest smile she could muster, but Connor returned it at full wattage. "Ya should always smile, lass. An' I'm sorry I was tha one that made ya do otherwise."

"Thank you," Pam replied.

Her reaction surprised Connor – usually, when apologized to a woman, she would say 'it's okay,' or, 'don't worry about it'. If it was so fucking okay or he shouldn't worry about it, why was he apologizing in the first place? Pam had class – she knew how to take a compliment and an apology.

"I'm sorry I…" she paused with a frown, trying to find words to describe her actions.

"Kicked me ta the curb an' told me off?"

She winced. "When you put it that way," she began, giving hima sheepish smile. "But, yeah…I shouldn't have done that. At least, not the way I did." She turned her attention back to her martini.

Connor shook his head and reached out, gently laying his hand on her shoulder, brushing through the loose waves of her hair. "Lass, ye've got nothin' to apologize fer. Trust me, if me ma ever found out tha shite I pulled wit' ya…I'd never hear tha end of it. It was a dick move, an' not one that I'm proud of."

"But you did it for what you believe in," Pam rushed to say. Her voice hid none of her emotions – she was in awe of him, of this man that felt so strongly about his convictions. "You're so passionate about it…you and your brother." She paused and turned her eyes to Connor's. "I'm so afraid that the two of you are going to get hurt – _really_ hurt. I just found you." Her voice shrank. "I don't like the idea of losing you."

"Aye, but we can do without' Murph, right?" Connor chided lightly.

"I don't like the idea of losing _either_ of you. Or Wren, for that matter. I don't have a lot of girl friends, Conn. I'd like to keep the one that I have."

Connor smiled. "I know what ya mean."

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their drinks, stealing glances of one another and looking away when they were found out. They were acting like lovestruck teenagers, flirting with their eyes and their smiles.

Finally, Connor broke the silence, sliding closer to Pam and tipping his head towards hers. "I miss ya," he offered gently. "I miss ya terribly. Ask Murph."

Pam felt her cheeks heat and she nodded. "I know," she answered, looking into his blue eyes. "A little bird told me."

The hand that he had laid on her shoulder was suddenly active again, his fingers curling through the ends of her hair and rubbing the soft cotton of the T shirt she wore. "D'ya miss me?" he asked, almost shyly.

Pam nodded. "I do."

Connor tilted his head and his deep blue gaze landed on Pam's lips for a moment. "What are we gonna do about that?"

Pam leaned in closer so that she could taste the beer on his breath and feel the electricity between their mouths. "You're going to take me to bed. Then, when I'm properly satisfied, we're going to have a long talk, Connor MacManus."

His answer was a soft kiss, just a brush against her lips with his, but it sent a jolt of pleasure right down to Pam's toes. "Even if it takes all night?"

Pam smiled. "_Especially_ if it takes all night."

* * *

"Oh, Jesus Christ, I told you two to not make a mess!"

Murphy stirred at the whining voice of his Italian friend and rubbed his eyes before cracking them open. At the same time, he became aware of the linoleum at his back and the warm weight of something sprawled half across him. He frowned up at Rocco and then glanced down at his torso, which was naked and covered by an equally naked Wren. Murphy's eyes sailed back to Rocco. "I wasn't even gone for half an hour, for Chrissake!"

"Lord's fuckin' name," Murphy blurted out. "An' we didn't make a mess…" he trailed off as his eyes glanced around the kitchen, taking in the open jar of strawberry jam, the honey bear that Rocco kicked with the toe of his boot, and the littering of chocolate chips that surrounded them. He looked at Rocco once more who was suddenly very interested in Wren's naked ass. "Hey, cover yer fuckin' eyes, ya dago cocksucker!"

That roused Wren. She snorted awake, pushing away from Murphy's skin with a slightly sticky sound and a muffled grunt. She glanced down at Murphy, scowled, and then flicked her head to the right, spying Rocco standing in the doorway of the kitchen. "Hey, Roc," Wren sighed, stretching across Murphy's torso and affording the Italian with another view of her ass. "Sorry about that. I'll restock your mom's pantry tomorrow."

Murphy couldn't hide the grin that was forming, and his blue eyes swept down Wren's back, spotting a stray chocolate chip resting in the small of her back. He picked it up and popped it in his mouth, humming as he did so. "Dessert was great," he purred, glancing to Wren. "What's fer dinner?"

Above them, Rocco growled and kicked the wall as he turned back to the living room. "There better not be any fucking sticky spots on that floor."

Murphy looked at Wren pointedly.

"Wait, no, I didn't fuckin' mean…" Rocco sighed, exasperated, as Wren and Murphy exploded into giggles. "Great," the Italian rumbled. "I'm rooming with a couple of horny teenagers now." He ran a hand over his hair. "Hey, you know, I think I liked you better when you were a moody Irishman and you were a secret Russian sniper that didn't say much," he called out. He paused and listened for sounds of them getting dressed. When he didn't hear any, he started talking again. "The beer is getting warm, you know. It might be nice to put it in the…"

"All right, Roc!" Murphy growled as he hauled Wren to her feet. "We get it. We're moving to tha bedroom. Don't get yer dick in a knot!"

"Not long enough," Wren muttered, snorting when Murphy gave her a glare.

"I heard that," Rocco muttered.

* * *

Connor returned later – much later – that night, grinning from ear to ear and holding a narrow tube of some sort. Kicking his boots off, he greeted Rocco, noting how he was squirming in his seat, sending Wren curious looks every now and then, and so the Irishman stopped in the middle of the living room and glanced between the two.

"What tha fuck is tha matter wit' ya two?"

"Nothing," Rocco blurted out, shifting in the armchair.

"He saw me and Murphy naked," Wren announced as she looked up from the book she was flipping through. She winked at Connor and then lowered her voice to stage whisper: "I think he's traumatized."

"I am not – fuck you," he sputtered, launcing from the chair and stomping to the kitchen.

Wren chuckled as Connor smiled fondly. She nodded at the tube in his hands. "What's that?"

Connor looked down the hall. "Where's Murph?"

Wren shrugged. "Fell asleep," she frowned.

"Wore him out?" Connor said around a yawn.

"I should ask Pam the same thing," Wren sang as she looked again to the object in Connor's hand. "Are you going to share with the class?"

Connor grinned and plunked down on the couch beside Wren. He unrolled the tube of paper he'd been clutching and spread it over the coffee table, weighting down the corners with an ashtray and a half-empty beer bottle. He made a 'ta-da' gesture with his hands, smiled triumphantly, and then sank back into the couch and lit a cigarette.

Wren frowned, staring down at what was decidedly a floor plan. "What exactly am I looking at?"

"_Ma Soba_," Connor replied, exhaling a stream of smoke.

Wren cocked her head and the floor plan made a bit more sense. She glanced to Connor who was looking oddly smug. "Did you get laid?"

"What? No – I mean…well…" he squinted and leaned forward. "Ya've got…something…" his finger swiped at a pinkish sticky stain on Wren's neck and he brought his finger away and inspected it. "Strawberry jam on ya…"

Wren blushed and waved him away. "Okay, fine, we both got laid. But you're looking more smug than you usually do after sex. I would know." She winked and smiled as Connor shifted with a growl.

"_Ma Soba_ is one of the only restaurants in Boston that will be able to accommodate us, as it is."

"As what is?" Wren asked slowly, her eyebrow creeping up.

Connor sucked on his cigarette for a moment, looking Wren up and down. "How do you feel about lying on your back and being covered with raw fish?"

Wren grinned. "Is that before or after I blow every last one of Gareghty's boyos away?"

* * *

It was shortly after breakfast the next morning when Connor unrolled the floor plan of the restaurant. He looked at Murphy, Wren, and Rocco, and then tapped the plan. "Yer gonna love this," he announced. "It's a real Renoir." He began explaining the intricacies of his plan, which had been slightly tweaked with Wren the night before. The pair had gone to bed, satisfied with the plan, but still a little wary about sharing it with the other MacManus twin.

"Wait a second," Murphy frowned when they were done. He glanced down at the floor plan of _Ma Soba_, noting once more where Connor's sharply slanting script had indicated where he and Wren would be positioned. Murphy's name, however, was strangely absent. "Where do I fit in during all o'dis?" When he didn't get an answer right away, he looked up to Wren, who was watching Connor closely. Murphy swung his gaze to his brother. "Conn?" he growled slowly.

Connor sighed, quickly looking to Wren before looking up to Murphy. "We thought it might be better if…ya weren't dere," he explained brokenly.

"What?" Murphy thundered.

Wren winced at the volume but said nothing.

"Why tha fuck would ya tink dat?" he demanded, looking to Wren for an explanation.

"Well, it's the circumstances, really," Wren started lamely. She gave half a shrug. "I mean…it's…It's a sushi restaurant."

"Aye – an' I don't have an allergy to seafood." He gave his twin a pointed look. "_You're_ the one that can't handle raw fish."

"Yeah," Connor began slowly. "But ya might be…distracted."

"What tha fuck are ya on about, Conn?" Murphy grumbled. "Yer da one dat gets turned 'round, can't remember which way ta go, makes me haul twenty pounds o'rope…what makes ya tink _I_ would be distracted?"

"Because it's _nyotaimori_," Wren supplied.

Murphy paused. "I don't speak Japanese, girl," he said, impatience lacing his words.

"It's naked sushi, Murph."

Murphy sat back slowly and cocked an eyebrow. "Naked sushi," he repeated flatly.

"Aye," Connor nodded.

Murphy had a sinking suspicion, but he asked anyway. "An' just who may I ask is doin' tha 'naked' part?"

* * *

"Are ya out o' yer feckin' _mind_, Wren? Yer literally servin' yerself on a platter for those fuckers!" Murphy shook his head firmly, adamantly. "I won't have it."

"Yeah, I thought you might say that," Wren mumbled. "That's why you're staying here."

"That's where yer _wrong_," Murphy countered. "M'not stayin' here. _You_ are. Conn an' I will bust in, tear 'em down, kill 'em all, an' dat will be da end o'it."

"Um, yeah, you're sexy as hell, Murphy, but I don't think Gareghty and his boyos will appreciate your naked form covered in raw fish." Wren shook her head. "Look, just because you know what I'm up against doesn't give you the right to storm the castle and be all fucking chivalrous. I've been in worse situations."

"Exactly!" Murphy groaned. "I don't know why ya'd want to put yerself in another one!"

Wren's mouth pressed into a firm line. "Because they need to go down, Murphy, and I'm the one to do it. I need my head in the game, not worrying about you blowing a gasket."

Murphy looked to Connor. "Ya hashed dis out wit' her, didn't ya?" He didn't wait for Connor's answer. "Jesus feckin' _Christ_…"

"Lord's Name," Connor interjected.

"Oh, shut da fuck up, Conn!" Murphy roared, throwing his hands up.

"See, dis is why I didn't want ta tell ya," Connor chided, ignoring his brother's outburst.

Murphy turned and glared at Wren. "Ya thought ya could keep dis from me? No more lies, dat's what we agreed upon!" He looked back to Connor. "An' me own brudder should know better."

"Murphy, it's risky enough as it is. The last thing we need is you being distracted – whether it's by my wellbeing, or the fact that I'll be naked, surrounded by men."

Murphy groaned painfully and dropped his head into his hands, mumbling in Gaelic as he did. "What did I do ta deserve dis?" he sighed.


	41. Chapter 41

_A/N: Let's pretend that the boys already did the hit at the afternoon poker game, okay? Okay, glad you agree. A few chapters left, people..._

* * *

"Should I be concerned that ya talked yer way in here without much trouble?" Connor asked as Wren led him back to the staging room of _Ma Soba_.

She smiled and shook her head, watching as a pair of young women bowed to her and Connor and then gestured to a waiting table. It was covered with dozens of plastic containers, no doubt full of raw fish. The pair of women then smiled, spoke to Wren in rapid Japanese, and then pointed to a small set of lockers. Then, they were gone, leaving Connor and Wren alone.

"The owner is being propositioned by Gareghty. Mr. Nobu doesn't like being bullied. I told him I'd take care of it." Wren set her bag down carefully, mindful of the loaded handguns it contained. Next to the table of fish was another table, _her_ table, on wheels, with a nice big compartment underneath that would be well hidden by the draping cloth she'd be laying on. Wren slowly smiled. "This will do nicely."

Connor was busy rifling thorugh his own bag. "Ya ever done anything like this before?"

"What? Had a bunch of creeps eat raw fish off of my naked body? No, this is a first. Although I have posed as a stripper once or twice." She paused and contemplated the situation. "Actually, I think that is fairly similar to this experience. Except for instead of dollar bills in my g-string," she continued, reaching for one of the fish containers, "I get raw salmon." She sniffed it for good measure. "At least it's fresh. No jokes about fish tacos," she added, shooting Connor a sharp glare.

He was busy flippng the lids off of the containers, pulling disgusted faces as he inspected the contents. He tossed one of them aside rather hastily, his nose twitching and his eyes watering.

"Careful with that," Wren muttered as she began to tug her clothing off. "I don't want wasabi in my snatch."

Connor chuckled as he continued to inspect the containers. "Ya know, m'no Saint; I've been wit me share o'women. Dat's tha first time I've ever heard one say dat ta me before." He winked and sniffed another container. "Ugh," he grimaced, wrinkling his nose and holding the tray out to Wren. "How can anyone eat this?"

Wren peeked at the tray and grinned, picking up a piece of raw octopus and popping it into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully. "Simple," she said after she swallowed. She picked up another piece. "Open up."

Connor shuddered and took a step back. "M'fine wit'out, thank ya."

"You don't know what you're missing," Wren sang as she dragged her underwear down her legs and stepped out of them.

Connor swallowed audibly and blinked. "Aye," he rasped. "Though I suppose ifin I was eatin' it off o' a fine lass such as yerself, a man could be persuaded."

Wren shot him a wry smile, but didn't answer. Instead, she handed him a schematic of the sushi layout. "Here's what we're aiming for, Renoir."

He looked it over for a few minutes, his eyes moving from the picture in his hand to where Wren was tugging the tiny scrap of modesty mesh into place between her thighs. Connor scratched his head and sighed. "Ya sure ya want tha crab _there_?"

"What?" Wren snapped, snatching the grid from his hand and looking it over. "Conn, the tuna belly goes _there_. The crab goes on my tits."

Connor snickered. "Booby trap?"

"Oh my god," Wren groaned. "Maybe I _should_ have brought Murph. He'd be more mature about this."

Connor snorted. "Oh, aye. I doubt that. An' Lord's fuckin' name," he scolded.

"You know I don't believe in that stuff," Wren sniffed. She held out her hand to Connor who took it and helped her up onto the table.

"Aye, but ya should," Connor shrugged, leaning over her and brushing her hair from her face. "He believes in _you_."

"Get with the fish, Irish," Wren replied, closing her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Seven twenty-seven."

Wren nodded and took a deep breath.

Connor paused his work and looked down at Wren thoughtfully. "Ya nervous?" he asked softly.

She shook her head, perhaps a little too quickly, and forced a smile. "Nope."

"If ya say so," he muttered, before moving on with the shark fin. He paused once more, glancing at the silver pendant hovering between her breasts. "Yer gonna hafta take that off," Connor said softly, already setting the tray of fish aside and reaching behind her neck.

Wren froze, clasping Connor's wrist with her hand. Her eyes met his and for a second, neither of them said anything.

"I haven't taken it off since he gave it to me," Wren admitted softly.

Connor returned it with half of a grin. "Dat's good. S'not meant ta come off unless…" he trailed off and waved his hand flippantly. "Doesn't matter."

"Connor," Wren said gently. "What were you going to say?"

Connor sighed and undid the clasp, gently pulling the chain free from Wren's neck. "Ya take it off when someone dies. Goes back ta tha person that gave it to ya." His voice turned hoarse and he quickly shoved the necklace into his pocket.

Wren gave a nervous chuckle. "You're freaking me out, Connor."

He shook his head and picked up the tray of fish once more. "Old Irish folklore," he muttered. "An' nothin' more."

* * *

"Murphy?"

The darker MacManus brother whirled at his name and pitched his cigarette aside, flashing Pam an awkward, crooked grin. It was bad enough he was here when he wasn't supposed to be. What the fuck was she doing here?

"What tha fuck are ya doin' here?"

Pam froze, smile half on her face, at the greeting she got from Connor's brother. She took a step back. "Nice to see you too, Murph," she growled.

Murphy shook his head, casting a hasty glance up and down the street. "No I mean…what are ya doin' _here_?" He caught her her elbow as she moved to step past him and his blue eyes bored into her hazel ones.

"What do you mean?" she asked slowly, cocking an eyebrow. She glanced to the sign of the restaurant, and then back to Murphy. "I'm meeting a few friends for dinner." She pulled from his grip. "Why?" Suddenly, her hazel eyes narrowed and she took a step forward

Murphy shrank back, almost afraid she'd clip him upside the head. He wouldn't put it past her. "Maybe you an' yer friends should go elsewhere," he said, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Licking her lips, she took another step forward, and then another, until Murphy bumped into the window, his hands held up in a placating manner. "Are you kidding me?" she hissed sharply.

"What? Huh?" He shook his head again. "No, Pam, I mean…"

"You two are doing a fucking hit, aren't you?" she snapped. She threw her hands up, turning from him. "I don't fucking believe it," she ranted. "I mean, I told Connor I didn't have a problem with it so long as he spared me the details, but seriously?" She whirled again, gesturing to the neon sign that read _Ma Soba_, to Murphy, and then to the sign again. "This is too obvious to be a coincidence."

Murphy bit his lip, moving forward and catching Pam's wildly gesticulating hands. "No, Pam, it's not that." He frowned when she gave him a doubtful look. "Okay, it is _that_, but it's not just us. It's Wren, an' I'm not even supposed ta be here…"

"Well, well. If it isn't Murphy MacManus."

Murphy paused at the interruption, his stomach twisting with the sound of the rough Irish brogue. He swallowed quickly, shooting Pam a warning glare, and then cast his his glance over his shoulder. "Mickey Monaghan."

Monaghan grinned sharply. "Surprised ta see ya here, Murphy. After all, Connor said ya couldn't make it." He swung his icy eyes over to Pam and grinned broadly. "Ah, who's this? Did you replace the bird already?"

Murphy bristled, but didn't answer, and instead watched as Tommy Callahan stepped forward and muttered something into Monaghan's ear.

"Really?" Monaghan chuckled a moment later. He looked back to Pam and Murphy. "Well, then by all means, I insist that Connor's lady friend join us."

* * *

"What the hell is going on?" Pam uttered as she was seated next to Murphy.

Staring straight again, Murphy bit his cheek, and then shot the brunette a sidelong look that said, _Keep your mouth shut_. He looked back up the table, watching as a young waitress deftly poured tea and left with a small bow.

Pam looked around the table, recognizing a few faces. She was fairly certain she was sitting right in the middle of the Irish mob. What had Monaghan said? That he thought Murphy wouldn't have made it? Her hazel eyes flickered back to Murphy momentarily. Were he and Connor actually meeting with these guys voluntarily? She glanced around the table once more. There were five of them – Monaghan, Tommy Callahan, the boxer whom she had heard about last weeend, and two other guys – one with brown hair, brown eyes, and the other with inky black hair and hard green eyes. She sat a little straighter as the latter of the pair stared intently at her.

"So you're Connor MacManus' girl?" he asked in a half-assed brogue that couldn't be called Irish.

"Aye," Pam sneered. "Why do you care?"

"That's Colm Gareghty yer talkin' ta, sweetheart," Monaghan announced, "so be a good lass an' lose tha cheek."

"Well, if he's offened, I can always leave," Pam shot back with a glare.

Gareghty laughed, as did the man beside him, and he leaned forward on his elbows, his lanky shoulders rising and falling. "Jesus Christ, yer as lippy as that little bird of his," he said, tipping his head towards Murphy. He then turned his attention to Murphy. "Where has she gotten to, anyway? Her brother ended up in puddle of his own blood down in Back Bay. I have a feeling she had something to do with it."

Of course she did, Murphy thought, she related every bloody detail to him. He wasn't about to satisfy Gareghty's curiosity, so he merely shrugged. "Don't know," he muttered. "Haven't seen her since Callahan's boxing match."

Gareghty opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted as the waitress returned, this time with Connor in tow.

"Ah, well, here he is, tha man of the hour," Gareghty greeted, standing from the table. His men followed.

Connor trailed behind the waitress, silently counting the men surrounding the table, and froze when he got to the last two people there. Murphy sat, sullenly staring ahead, his jaw tense. Connor's eyes widened comically. Looking to his brother's left, he felt his heart plummet as Pam stared back at him with equally wide eyes.

_Well shit_, he thought, as he was shown to the empty seat directly across from Murphy. He raised his eyebrows at Murphy, sending him a mental message. _Good fuckin' job stayin' clear o'tha place._

Murphy narrowed his eyes at his brother's expression. _Like I was tellin' tha truth when I said I'd stay home_.

Fuck his brother's stubborn nature. He should have known. Connor shook his head, having already planned for this. But for Pam? He shot another wary glance her way, frowning at the obvious look of distress that marred her features. He shook his head once, already knowing what she was thinking.

_Where the fuck is Wren_? Pam tried to stay calm, and told herself that Connor had the situation under control, but Murphy had admitted that he wasn't supposed to be here. Judging by Connor's reaction, he had expected his brother to show up, but she knew she had just thrown a wrench into his plan. Her hand shot out, hastily grasping the glass of water set before her, and she gulped half of it down. A hand gently squeezing her knee brought her back, and she quickly looked to Murphy, who still stared across the table to his brother.

"_Ná biodh imní ort_," Murphy mumbled. "_Fan gar dom_."

She was suddenly, eternally grateful for the lessons in Irish Gaelic that Murphy had insisted upon back when she and Connor had first met.

Pam cleared her throat and flicked her gaze to Connor, who stared at Murphy for a moment longer, and then looked up to the head of the table. "All right," Connor began, leaning back into his chair. "D'ya think I can get a fuckin' drink before we start talkin'?"

Garegthy laughed and leaned back, signalling the waitress and muttering a few quick orders to her. "We'll drink, Mr. MacManus. An' we'll eat, too. I always think better on a full stomach." He licked his lips, glancing to Murphy and Pam, and then back to Connor. "I think you're in for a real treat."

Gareghty's tone of voice made Murphy's jaw twitch, but the irony of the comment wasn't lost on him. He smiled sharply and nodded. "Can't wait ta see what's in store," he replied.

* * *

Some Irish Translations:

_Ná biodh imní ort_: Don't worry

_Fan gar dom_: Stay close to me


	42. Chapter 42

Wearing a mask had greatly limited Wren's vision. She had no peripheral to speak of; she had a feeling this was what it was like to have tunnel vision. She didn't like it, to say the least, but there was no other way this would work. She only hoped that none of Gareghty's men would look too closely. She was fair enough, and built petite, so that she could pass as oriential without too much hassle. Her blonde hair had been tucked into a bobbed black wig, but the blue eyes? She'd have a hard time explaining that one if any of these guys decided to look further than her tits.

As she was wheeled into the dining room, she counted the lights, and gagued her position from the maps she'd memorized the night before. She was more or less in the middle, with one other door leading to the kitchen, and of course, the one she came through leading back to the service entrance and beyond, the main dining area. The conversation around her was stilted, and she could make out Gareghty's voice and Monaghans, but she took comfort in Connor's litliting tones.

And then she heard Murphy's rough growl and her heart skipped a beat. He wasn't supposed to be here; she heard Connor mutter a sharp warning in Russian to his brother, who in turn spoke English next. "You all right, lass?"

Wren almost answered – almost – and she remembered that Murphy never called her 'lass.' He'd always called her 'girl'. A second later, a voice muttered 'I'm fine', and Wren strained to place the voice.

"You look uncomfortable, lass!" Callahan called, arousing a round of dark laughter from Gareghty and his men. "Don't worry sweetheart, your tits are better than hers!"

Murphy was seeing red at the fact that Callahan had insulted both Wren and Pam in one sentence. "I think she's just a little shocked that someone would lay themselves out like this for the likes of you," Murphy snapped. He could admit to himself that she looked good – fuck, she was naked, she was the kind of girl that looked better naked. But he didn't have to sit and watch Gareghty and his fucking goons eyeball his woman.

Wren knew Murphy's snarky reply was a dig in her direction, and she fought the urge to curl the hand on Murphy's side into a one-fingered salute.

Garethy's laughter subsided and the others trickled off accordingly. "Well, boyos, eat. I'm payin' trew tha nose fer this, aye? Don't want it ta go ta waste."

Wren heard a chair scrape back on the tile floor, but Gareghty called a halt to Callahan, who had stood so abruptly. "We have guests, Tommy," Gareghty growled. "Ladies first."

"I'm not hungry," the woman snapped.

Wren's stomach flipped as she finally reliazed who the other woman was. What the _fuck_ was Pam doing there?

A moment of silence followed. "Pretend, then," Gareghty sniped back. Wren recognized the tone of voice: he was losing his patience. Mentally, she crossed her fingers, and hoped that Pam didn't call his bluff.

There was movement to Wren's right, and then she felt a little prod at her belly as someone lifted sushi from her. It was Pam; she could tell by the perfume and the fact that she used her left hand. Wren stared straight up at the ceiling and closed her eyes, wating for Pam to sit down again.

Instead, she heared a quick intake of breath, and Wren made the mistake of opening her eyes. She found herself staring straight up into Pam's green and gold eyes. Wren tried her best to convey a message in those three seconds: _keep your cool. Don't do anything to draw attention._

Pam couldn't be blamed, though. It was the last place she'd expected to see Wren. Her hand fumbled and she dropped her plate, and it clattered to the floor. She quickly looked to Connor.

Connor flashed a sad smile and then glanced once to Murphy. Together, the brothers turned to Gareghty, who was half standing, the smile already sliding from his face. "What?" He growled.

Beside Gareghty, Monaghan growled, and then smacked Callahan into action. The knuckler shot from his chair just as Connor leaned in and reached under the tablecloth that Wren lay on. His hands immediately curled around the pair of Desert Eagles.

Murphy deftly tumbled Pam to the floor and shoved her under the table before he lifted the tablecloth on his side and grinned widely. "Fuck me, nice haul, Conn," he murmured to himself. He grasped his own two guns, smiling even wider as he realized that they had been set out for this very reason. He glanced up, already seeing Wren's fingers curling under the riser next to her right hand.

The brothers watched as Callahan stormed the table, clambering up onto it, his SIG already drawn, his feet kicking out against the fish arranged there. Connor frowned at the injustice done to his rather nifty handiwork, but quickly trained his guns, one towards Gareghty, and the other towards one of the twin guards he'd brought. Across Wren's torso, Murphy aimed his gun out at Monaghan, and the other twin. Grunting, Callahan snagged Wren's masked and ripped it off in a whirl of pale blonde hair. The thud of a gun barrel landed aginst his solar plexus and he looked down into the dark blue eyes of Wren.

"Hiya Tommy," Wren purred. "You're going down this round."

* * *

"Jesus, this is a mess. Talk to me, Greenly."

David Greenly cast a cautious glance at Agent Paul Smecker and held back the sigh he wanted to heave so badly. He crossed the dining room of _Ma Soba_, trying his best to avoid the carnage: blood, brains, guts, and raw fish littered the floor, and there were shell casings everywhere. The icing on the cake was the small explosion that appeared to have occurred. A table lay blown to bits, and the chairs weren't in much better condition.

"Definitely a mob hit," Greenly muttered as he came to stand next to the Fed.

Smecker's fists landed on his hips and he looked up at Greenly with an exasperated expression. "Really," he droned flatly. "And what makes you think that?"

Now Greenly smiled broadly. "The Japanese contingent, though small, has been trounced by the Irish for a few years. Guess they finally had enough." He rocked on his heels as he finished, looking smug.

Smecker, though not thoroughly convinced of Greenly's theory, nodded, and said nothing. Instead, he stared at an overturned table that appeared to be on wheels. Something moveable. There was a large cavity on the underside. Dropping to a crouch, he peeled back the tablecloth and inspected the compartment. Then he swung his head out to one of the nearby forensic team. "What happened over here?"

Without looking up, the investigator continued to photograph the larger chunks of fish and blood spatter. "You're not from around here, are you?" he drawled in a heavy New England accent.

"What gave it away?" Smecker asked breezily. He moved closer to the table, noting the padded roll at the top…almost like a massage table. "Is this a massage table?"

"It's for _nyotaimori_. A bunch of guys – well, usually just guys, business men – get together and eat raw fish off of a naked woman."

Smecker looked at the table in a new light. "I've heard of it. Not really my cup of tea."

The investigator chuckled with a shake of his head. "That's something I would have paid money to see – a bunch of Irishmen eating raw fish."

Smecker tilted his head the other way and looked at the investigator. "So there was a woman here?"

"There were two of them – that's what Rodriguez told me. Said that a 911 call came in and two women, one with a GSW, were picked up. Took em' county."

Smecker made a mental note and moved away, back through the dining room. "Duffy, who we got?"

Duffy began pointing out to the collection of bodies that were spread around the dining room. "All right, we'll start over here. Duffy moved to the table that had drawn Smecker's attention. "Tommy 'The Natural' Callahan. Knuckler for Gareghty, big name in the bare knuckle boxing circuits. Guess he can't win them all, hey?" The sheet came back to reveal a dead shot through the eye.

* * *

_"You fucking Russian bitch," Callahan sneered as he focused on Wren's face. He felt the thump of the gun against his chest and he grabbed her wrists, forcing it to one side so that when she squeezed a round off, it whizzed past his ear, making his hearing ring._

_"Be nice, Tommy," Wren growled, shoving her knee into his groin and making him topple over her. She wiggled beneath him, her hand scrambling for the knife she had stashed on the table. Bringing it up, she managed to get a stab into the meat of his bicep, and he roared, bucking up and off of her._

_Balanced on his knees, he glared down at Wren viciously. "Yer a fine piece of ass," he growled, sweeping his eyes to her breasts, threats be damned, "if you could keep yer mouth shut!" He got in one good hit and then somewhere, a gun went off. Tommy stared and then glared up to the head of the table._

_There stood Murphy, hovering over Wren, his Desert Eagle in point blank range with Tommy's head. "Keep yer eyes to yerself, ya fuckin' cocksucker," Murphy growled. He squeezed the trigger easily and the bullet snapped out and collided with Tommy's right eye socket. The knuckler went down a second later, his brains spraying out behind him._

* * *

"Then," Duffy continued, strolling through the wreckage like he was in a supermarket, "Ya got Bobby and Brian Mahoney. Irish twins – I know, right?" Duffy exclaimed with Smecker's puzzled look. He drew the sheet back. "But these ones are identical. Anyway, these two have been part of Gareghty's muscle for a while…guess he wanted extra eyes, what with Donahue laid up in the hospital. Looks like these two didn't quite have the mustard." They'd each met their demise through the chest with several shots.

* * *

_"Gettin' greedy, Gareghty?" Connor called out from where he was backed against the concrete facing wall of the dining room. "Ya already got yerself a pair…what tha hell d'ya need the MacManus brothers fer?" He chuckled and raised his guns, letting off a few rounds blindly._

_"At least they know their place," Gareghty growled back before shoving the aforementioned twins out from under cover. "Get out there," he hissed, "and take care of those two assholes."_

_Brian popped his head up first and, when he didn't see anything, he signalled to Bobby, only feet away. Together, they circumvanced the room, rounding out where the one MacManus brother might be. They'd seen the darker one go to ground with the brunette woman in tow. Shuffling through debris, they quickly dove down over a table as Wren lit up the room with her SIG, clipping Brian in the shoulder. He crowed in anger as he vaulted over the table, and he landed in a heap on top of Bobby._

_"Bobby, ya stupid fuck, get up," he growled, grabbing his brother's collar and yanking him upwards. Brian didn't get far, he was jolted back by the dead weight he was trying to haul. His eyes flashed down, widening as the bloodstain on his brother's shirt did the same. A low scream started in the back of his throat, growing louder and angrier as he looked up, searching for the motherfucker who had put a bullet in his brother._

_Connor was waiting for him, cheeky grin in place, guns aimed and cocked. "Hiya, Brian. Looks like the better pair one this hand, eh?" He fired, blowing three bullets into Brian's chest, heart and both lungs. The other twin collapsed, and while Connor felt a slight twinge of real guilt at the fact that he'd killed a pair of twins, he didn't let it linger. There was only one pair he cared about._

_"Murph, talk ta me!" He called as he shifted to his feet and readied to stand._

* * *

"Finally, the two biggest fish of the night: Mickey Monaghan and Colm Gareghty." Duffy pointed to the charred table and sure enough, the big fish and his second in command were…well, they weren't in much better shape than the raw fish scattering the floor.

* * *

_"Ya know how ta use on o'these?" Murphy asked as he cocked and readied the small Walther P36 and handed it to Pam._

_She nodded. "Yeah, I have brothers. I used to set off my father's rifle when we lived back in Ireland."_

_Murphy nodded. "Ya won't need ta brace yerself wit' dis little ting. But you need it, you use it," he said hurriedly as he stood from behind the table to answer his brother._

_"Oi, Conn, who's left?" He watched Connor kick aside the identical bodies of the Mahoney twins and then look to the far end of the dining room._

_"Fuck me," Connor muttered as he focused on the view._

_Murphy swung his gaze to where his brother stared and gaped, scratching at his head. "Lord's fuckin' name, is that a grenade launcher?"_

_"I don't want ta find out," Connor replied, swiftly taking aim at Monaghan who hefted the large weapon._

_Gareghty chose that moment to pull his own gun and started squeezing off rounds. If his brogue was shitty, his shooting was deplorable, and he missed, though a few shots pinged off of the floor or the wall near the twins._

_"Out tha back, Mr. Gareghty, an' I'll take care of these two assholes."_

_Pam listened to the back and forth, wincing with every gunshot, but as soon as Monaghan mentioned blowing her boys up, she saw red. With a low growl she rolled out from behind the table Murphy had shoved over as cover, and crouched low, keeping out of sight. Then, she spotted it: A gleaming white propane tank attached to the bottom of one table for the purposes of Korean Barbecue._

_"Connor, Murphy," she called out._

_"Busy right now, lass, can it wait?"_

_"__**Ní dóigh liom é. Tóg chlúdach, buachaillí**__."_

_Connor flashed a quick, confused look to his twin, and then shrugged. "Don't want ta disappoint tha lady," he joked, before tucking into a dive behind another table. Murphy went too, and the boys huddled together, covered their heads, and waited._

_Pam aimed at the tank and pulled the trigger, bracing herself for the explosion._

* * *

"Who would do this?" Smecker muttered to himself as he looked from one body to the next.

"I'm tellin'ya, it was the Japanese. Case closed," Greenly sang out.

"No, no, it's too close to home," Smecker argued. "You don't shit where you eat. The Italians?"

Duffy nodded. "Could be. I mean, Gareghty did have Agosti picked off."

Smecker's thought process leapt forward suddenly. The Little Bird, Abernathy, she'd been the one to take down Agosti; it was in Donahue's report. His mind flashed to the night before, and the death of Nate Abernathy. It was no secret that she'd picked her brother off, and her brother had worked for the Irish. He wracked his brain for anything else he could remember from Donahue's report.

"Here's what we got," Dolly announced as he approached Smecker while holding an evidence bag with a few spent shells. "One of the boys in forensics here says he pulled SIG Sauer shells out of a few of those Russians last month. The bullets themselves had a unique flaw when fired – a notch on one side." Dolly waved the bag back and forth. "Just. Like. _These_."

Smecker snatched the bag away and held it up to the light. "Shit on me," he muttered tersely. "What did we figure on those hits?"

Dolly smirked. "We _didn't_. But we found the same casings at The Lenox just last night." He sighed in satisfaction.

Smecker shook his head. "No, no, _no_!" he whined. "There's something missing. Something we're not seeing. It's right under our noses." He scowled at a piece of stray salmon now decorating the toe of his four hundred dollar shoes. "Fuck," he grumbled again, kicking it aside. It sailed up and then back down, and landed with a dull '_plop_' on something shiny. Slowly, Smecker paced forward, crouching lower and lower as he neared the chunk of raw fish. It appeared to have landed on a chain of some kind. Silver. Thin, not too delicate. Something that would stand up to a bit of abuse. He moved the fish and was confronted with a triangular pendant, with vines woven inside. It looked Celtic. But it didn't look like something any of Gareghty's goons would wear. But maybe a woman… With a discreet hand, Smecker knelt, pretending to inspect his shoe, and gently plucked the necklace up with a handkerchief, and then folded it into his pocket.

* * *

_An Irish Translation:_

___Ní dóigh liom é. Tóg chlúdach, buachaillí:_ I don't think so. Take cover, boys.


	43. Chapter 43

_One Hour Earlier_

Murphy's ears were still ringing as he pushed what was left of the table from his shoulder and checked Pam, who was crouched down behind him. "Y'all right?"

Pam coughed, debris floating around her, and opened her eyes, surveying the scene. "Holy shit. Did I do that?" She stared down at the small Walther in her still shaking hand.

"Aye. That…an' a propane tank. Thank tha lord fer sushi _an'_ Korean barbecue." He grinned triumphantly. "Can ya move?"

Pam sucked in a breath. "I'm fine. I'm fine," she repeated. She waved to the other side of the dining room. "Connor?"

Murphy stood, wicncing at the gashes and bruises he sported, and called across the dining room. "Oi, Conn!" He waited a second, and didn't hear anything. His heart twisted slightly. "Connor!" he called again, a little more frantic. Murphy vaulted over fallen chairs and slipped through raw fish.

"Murph!" Connor's voice was urgent, sharp, and Murphy doubled his speed.

"Conn!" Murphy crashed down on his knees beside the overturned table that Wren had been on, and immediately fixed his eyes on his brother. He swept his gaze up and down Connor's body, checking for any serious injuries. "You okay?" Murphy asked slowly. Then he noticed that Connor's eyes were trained down. On the floor.

"Ah, Jesus," Murphy gulped as he followed Connor's stare.

Wren was huddled back against Connor's leg, shivering under his jacket, a pool of blood rapidly spreading underneath her.

Murphy's heart skittered dangerously, and he felt his fingers go numb as his limbs turned to jelly. Already on the floor, he melted down, cupping Wren's face in his blood-stained hands, and pushed her hair back. "Wren, can ya hear me?" Her eyes were closed. "Ah, fuck, c'mon, Wren, _mo ghrá_, please, fuck…" he trailed off, shoving Connor's jacket down to reveal a straight shot into Wren's chest on the left side. "Ah, fuck me, no, c'mon, _fán liom go_." His fumbled frantically with her hands, checking for a pulse on her wrist, before moving back to her neck. It was there, faint, and he pleaded with her to open her eyes.

"Jesus, that fucking hurts," Wren suddnely croaked before sucking in a sharp breath and popping her eyes open.

"Ah, by Christ, girl, stay still, yer bleedin'," Murphy ranted, scrambling on the floor to reach a fallen cloth napkin. He came back and pressed it to the wound, causing Wren to hiss sharply and close her eyes.

"It looks bad, Murph," Connor announced lowly, looking up as Pam hurried over.

"Shit, was she shot?" Pam sank down to a crouch and flipped the side of Connor's jacket back. Her eyes grew wide and she looked up to Connor. "That's bad." She glanced to Murphy and then to Wren who was breathing shallowly. "That shot is bad. Her lungs are filling up – we have to get her to a hospital!"

"Are ya crazy? Tha cops are gonna be swarmin' dis place any minute – we need ta get outta here before…"

"Connor!" Pam bellowed. "We _need_ ta get her to a hospital _now_! This is serious, ya can't fuckin' fix this wit' an _iron_!"

Connor looked like he'd been slapped with Pam's outburst, and he gaped at her dumbly for a moment. Pam cursed the pair of them out and shoved Murphy aside, taking over the pressure on Wrens wound. "Go," she growled. "I can take care of this." When neither Connor nor Murphy moved, Pam shot them both murderous looks. "I said go!" she screamed. "No use the two of you getting arrested! Go…I'll call you, just fucking go!"

Connor clambered to his feet, hauling Murphy up by his jacket collar. "C'mon, Murph, she's right," he said, already replacing his guns. He bounded over to where Murphy had taken cover and picked up Murphy's other gun and the Walther Pam had used. He then moved back and grabbed the bag their arsenal had been in, along with the change of Wren's clothes. "Murph, we gotta go, _now_!"

"All right!" Murphy snapped, shooting Connor a stony glare. He looked back to Wren. "I hafta go, girl," he murmured, touching her face again. Wren nodded, her head cradled in his palm.

"S'all right," she slurred softly. "I'll be fine."

"Murphy, _now_, or we're not getting' outta dis," Connor warned, eyeing the door.

"M'comin'," Murphy growled. He joined Connor at the door, shooting one last long look at Wren, as Pam crouched at her side.

"She'll be okay," Connor said, though it sounded lame even to _him_. He wasn't a doctor, but he knew enough basic anatomy to know that Wren had been shot in the lung, if not through the heart, and she had a very small window of survival.

"Aye," Murphy croaked, not believing his brother's, or Pam's, or his own words. He moved, numb with shock, and followed Connor out to the service entrance of the restaurant.

* * *

"Your friend is in serious condition, Ms…?"

"Leary," Pam muttered. She craned her neck to see past the doctor standing before her, but the curtains had been drawn in the OR and she couldn't see anything. "I understand. She'll be all right, though?"

The doctor frowned and pulled her glasses off, rubbing her eyes. "She's lost a lot of blood. We can do transfusions, but there is extensive damage to the heart and lung. The bullet tore right through her." The doctor sighed and gave Pama tight lipped smile. "We've stabilized her for now, though she hasn't regained conciousness yet."

The breath that Pam had been holding sailed out and she sagged back against the wall behind her. She felt like her lungs had collapsed. Her eyes blinked, trying to dispel the tears gathering.

"Are you and the patient family?"

Pam scoffed bitterly at the word, but nodded anyway. "Yeah. Yeah, you could say that."

The doctor reached out with a soothing hand and laid it on Pam's shoulder. "Is there anyone else you can call? Someone to be here with you? This can't be easy…"

"No," Pam shook her head. Yes, she knew she needed to call Connor and Murphy, but she was alone here for now. "No, there's no one that can come." She swallowed thickly. "Thank you, doctor." She nodded. "I'll wait here…until there's news…"

The doctor gave her another sympathetic look. "It could be sometime before she wakes up," she stated, leaving out the part where she might not wake up at all. "You should go home, get some rest. You can leave your number with the nurse's station if you like. Someone will call you if there are any changes to her status."

"Thank you," Pam smiled weakly, curling into a chair and pulling her coat over her legs, "but I think I'll stay here for the time being."

The doctor nodded once more and then left. Pam quickly dug into her pocket and sifted through loose change for a quarter. Then, she crossed the waiting room to the payphone and dialled Rocco's mother's place.

The call was picked up halfway through the first ring. "Pam?"

Pam sighed, Connor's voice putting her a little at ease. "Yeah. It's me."

"Christ our savoir, lass, what's goin' on?"

"Is Murphy there? I'd like to tell him directly…save something getting lost in the back and forth."

"Aye, he's here."

There was a bit of shuffling and then Murphy spoke. "Is she all right?"

The concern in his voice weighed heavily in Pam's heart and she sagged back against the wall next to the phone, clutching the earpiece. "I don't know," she answered.

"What did the doctor say?"

"Uhhmm," Pam began with a shaky breath. She held it and stared up at the ceiling, willing her eyes to remain dry. "She's st-stable," she began brokenly. "But there's major damage to her left lung and her heart…" she broke off as the doctor's words sank deeper. "She's unconscious." She paused, listening to the tiny, barely audible hitch in Murphy's voice.

"Pam," he uttered, pushing for more information.

"They don't know when she'll wake up," Pam replied.

She heard another bit of shuffling, and speaking in the background. There was a loud clatter; Pam assumed the phone had been dropped. She could hear Connor nearby. "Murph," he called. A door slammed.

"Shit," Connor growled once he'd picked up the phone again.

"Is he okay?" Pam asked dumbly.

Blowing out a sharp stream of air, Connor replied. "No, lass, he's not okay. He just locked himself in the bathroom." She heard a thumping, presumabley Connor banging on the door, and then a muffled string of curses in a few languages as Murphy told him off. Connor came back on the line. "He'll come around," he said, but his voice held about the same conviction as the doctor's had. "How are _you_, lass? Yer not stayin' tha night, are ya?"

Pam gave a half-sob, half-chuckle. "What the hell else am I supposed to do?" she sniffed. She swiped at her eyes again.

"I want ya here wit' me. Don't move, all right? Give me ten minutes an' I'll be there ta pick ya up at the emergency entrance."

Connor's voice was clogged with desperation; Pam couldn't blame him. She didn't want to leave Wren alone, but she badly needed to be with Connor – just to see him, and to be within reaching distance. Wren, she knew, was tough. She could handle this. Pam couldn't. "Okay," she breathed. "But I'm coming right back here tomorrow morning."

"Aye, lass, I know," Connor placated. "Ten minutes. I'll see ya soon."

* * *

Donahue woke as the door to his room clicked shut. Recognizing Smecker hovering near the door, Donahue groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. "What now?" he growled, pushing himself upright.

"Something's not adding up," Smecker began with a frown.

Donahue shook his head. "Look, I gave you every note I had on the Abernathy siblings. It's all in the files. I don't know anymore than that." He snorted and gestured to his current state. "I haven't exactly been active in the field as of late."

Smecker nodded, his eyes taking in the IV still attached to Donahue's arm, and the aluminum walker shoved into one corner. "I'll pull a few strings. Make sure you get the best rehabilitative care."

"Whatever," Donahue waved him off. "What's not adding up?"

Smecker frowned. "There was a hit tonight at a downtown sushi restaurant. The private dining room of _Ma Soba_ is littered with Colm Gareghty and his closest friends."

"Shit, I didn't think old Nobu had reached his breaking point yet. The Japanese have impeccable patience." Donahue bobbed his eyebrows. "Missed that bullet, didn't I?"

Smecker shook his head swiftly. "No, it wasn't the Japanese. It was your bird, Donahue, the shells from her SIG were all over that place."

Donahue paused for a moment. He shouldn't have felt surprised at the news; Wren had been a gun for hire for the majority of her life. Still, it hit hard with him; he didn't really know _how_ to feel about it.

"What I don't get is how she was able to do it – the scene suggests something called _nyotaimori_. Naked sushi. Now, two women were brought here tonight, one with a gunshot wound. If your bird was the naked one, how did she manage to take out five armed mobsters, three of them seasoned marksmen, without any help?"

Donahue didn't answer. Smecker wasn't really talking to him, anyway, he was sort of pacing the floor and talking to himself, rationalizing the evidence.

"And the second woman – who was she?" Smecker paused again and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a folded cloth napkin. "I think one of them was wearing this." He set the bundle on Donahue's lap.

Donahue reached for the cloth and unfolded it. The flash of silver made his mouth go dry. The familiar shape of the pendant caused his heart to lurch. "It's hers," Donahue muttered, wrapping the chain through is fingers. "Wren's. She got it from MacManus."

Smecker froze and slowly turned his gaze to Donahue. "Did you say _MacManus_?"

Donahue nodded. "Yeah, some meatpacking Mick from southie." His smile turned from fond to rueful. "He's the reason the Agosti job got fucked up."

"MacManus, wait, wait, a meat packer?" Smecker's voice grew frantic, the pitch rising, and he raked his long fingers through his thick hair. "Oh, fuck, _of course_," he groaned. "Of course, it's so obvious!"

"Wait – _what?_" Donahue scowled as Smecker grabbed his coat and headed for the door. "Smecker, _wait_!"

Smecker paused at the door, his grin simmering with realization. "Hmm?"

Donahue picked up the chain and let it swing in his grip. "This…why do you have this?"

Smecker steeled his features. "Crime scene," he announced smugly, as if picking evidence wasn't a crime itself. He brushed his hair aside.

Donahue's dark eyes narrowed.

"What's wrong?"

"Where is she?" Donahue asked lowly.

Smecker gaped silently for a moment.

"Look, she's either in the hospital or the morgue. You wouldn't have this otherwise."

"What do you mean?"

Donahue stared back at the pendant. "The only reason these come off the wearer is if someone has died. Then, it usually goes back to the person who gave it to the wearer in the first place. You said a woman came in with a gunshot wound." His gaze snapped to Smecker once more. "Get me the name of that woman."

* * *

"We hit Yakavetta's tonight."

Pam looked over her shoulder from where she'd been settling Murphy in – he'd passed out on the couch after spending most of the previous night and all of that morning drinking, and smoking, an conversing with Connor until his throat was hoarse. Connor now stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching his girlfriend and his brother expectantly.

"What?" she snarked. She checked Murphy once more, finding him still asleep, and quietly moved to the door, shoving Connor out into the hallway. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" Pam hissed. "He's in no shape to do _anything_, Connor! Talk about distraction…"

Connor's face turned into an ugly sneer and he growled lowly. "Ya think this doesn't affect me, lass? Ya think I'm not in just as much pain as him?" His teeth were clenched, words were tight. His hands circled her upper arms like iron shackles. His blue eyes bore into her hazel ones. "Ya think I'm just this hard lump o'stone dat has no feelings for the people he loves?"

Immediately, Pam was ashen, and she shook her head, her scowl melting away to sadness. "Oh, Christ, no, Connor, I didn't mean that…"

He interrupted her with a sniff, thumbing his eyes which were watery. "Everything me an' Murph have done is down ta this…an' everything Wren has gone through. Everything _you_ have gone through…"

"Don't make this to be about me, Conn," Pam warned lowly. She felt the grip on her arms loosen and Connor slumped against the wall, rubbng tired eyes.

"It's _all_ of us, Pam," Connor interjected. "All of us, everyone, you, an' me, an' Murphy an' Wren, an' Mrs. O'Clary who has ta walk five blocks through infested streets ta get her husband's prescription, an' Doc, whose only livelihood is threatened everyday, an Father Macklepenny, an' every parishner ta St. Michaels. It's yer grandmother, Pam. _Everyone_." He was breathing heavily as his tirade wound down, but it felt good, the burst of emotion, even if it was more anger than anything else. Suddenly, he found himself with an armload of Pam, and she clung to him, burying her face in his neck as her hands gripped his shoulders.

"God an' Christ in heaven, Connor, I know. I do know." Her words muffled against his skin, already damp with her tears. Her head came up and she leaned back so that she could see his face. Her hands cupped his jaw and she memorized him, every line, angle, brush of whisker and wildly flailing blond hair. "I just got you back, Connor."

"You never lost me," Connor said softly, reaching to brush her hair from her face. He kissed her, and poured everything he could think of into it. It left them both gasping, pulling at each other's clothes. As he kissed her again, he moved her swiftly down the hall and into the next bedroom, hellbent on showing her how much of him she'd always had.


	44. Chapter 44

The cadence of the heart monitor was almost soothing. Every time Pam's eyes drooped closed, however, she jolted awake, and she remembered that she was in a hospital keeping vigil on Wren while Connor and Murphy were out killing bad guys. When had her life gotten so difficult?

_Probably about the same time you met Connor MacManus_, the rational part of her brain snarked. Pam didn't want to hear it; it sounded too much like her mother. She stood and went to the window, glancing down into the alley. It was raining again; she could see the way the pavement shone in the light from the street lamps. The sound of the door clicking open made her turn and she gazed at a dark haired man in a wheelchair caught in the doorway.

"Oh…I, um…sorry, must have the wrong room," he began to back out but then looked to the bed and paused before affording Pam with another glance.

He looked familiar. She cocked her head and moved closer. "No, it's all right…you…you know her, don't you? I've seen you before, and her, together…"

His eyebrows moved up in surprise, but he nodded and then looked back to Wren. "Yeah," he sighed. "How is she?"

Wrapping her arms around her chest, Pam shrugged. "I don't honestly know. The doctors here are being pretty tight lipped. I was with her last night, and I've been here since about five…she hasn't woken up yet."

The man nodded again and wheeled his chair closer to the bed. "Do you mind if I…I mean, if you'd rather be alone with her…"

"No," Pam shook her head. "No, please…I need something other than this fucking beeping to distract me."

He nodded and parked his chair and Pam took the empty seat next to him. "I'm Pam."

"Ryan," he said, holding out his hand.

Pam shook it, but eyed him warily. "You're one of Monaghan's men, aren't you?"

Ryan shrugged. "I actually work…_worked_…for Colm Gareghty. I have a feeling I'll be needing to find another job," he quipped, nodding in Wren's direction.

Pam looked closely at the man beside her and then back to Wren. "I thought," she replied as the pieces fell into place, "that you already had one?" She looked at Ryan out of the corner of her eye.

Ryan cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. "Yeah, I don't know how long I'll be on _that_ payroll, either."

Pam afforded him a small smile and pulled her legs up into the chair.

"You know the MacManus twins?" he asked a few moments later.

She snorted softly. "You could say that."

Ryan left it at that and for a while, they sat in amicable silence.

An hour or so later, Pam stretched, checked her watch, and then turned to Ryan. "I'm going to get some coffee…do you want one?"

"That's what they're calling the brown water?" Ryan joked.

Pam chuckled with him. "It's better than nothing," she shrugged. "I'll bring one for you," she decided, slipping out of the room and into the hall.

* * *

She didn't go for coffee, at least not right away. Checking her watch again, and seeing that it was close to eleven, she stopped at the payphone and called her answering machine, hoping – shit, at this point, she was actively praying – that there would be some word from Connor. It was early – _was_ it early? She didn't know what qualified as 'early' in terms of killing someone.

Her answering machine was empty. Siging, she dug back into her pocket for change, and moved to the coffee machine. The whirring and sputtering of the machine was lulling; Pam was exhausted and hoped that this would all be over soon. With two steaming cups in hand, Pam turned back towards the room. She was cut off by a nurse dashing across the way and raised voices coming from the nursing station down the hall. As she turned the corner to head back to Wren's room, she heard a pair of men, both agitated and growling with whiskeyed brogues. She quickened her pace, already imagning the scene.

Sure enough, Murphy stood at the station, leaning over the desk towards one of the nurses who was redfaced with outraged surprise. Connor had his hand on Murphy's shoulder, trying to keep him in check. In her best placating tone, Pam heard the nurse answer Murphy, "Sir, you have to calm down or I'll security. I understand, but I need to clear this with her next of kin."

"What the fuck are ya talkin' about?" Murphy growled. "Girl doesn't have next of kin."

"It's okay!" Pam called suddenly, and she hustled to them. She looked at the nurse and smiled. "They're okay, I know them both."

"Fuck, _finally_," Murphy growled. "What room?"

"Uh," the nurse fumbled looking at her chart and then glancing at Pam once again for confirmation. "I really shouldn't – I mean, none of you are listed as next of…"

"It's fuckin' close enough," Murphy snapped, eyes like daggers.

"Seventeen – just over there," she rattled off. "No – wait, you have to sign in!"

Murphy growled again and Connor yanked his shoulder back. "_Tóg é deartháir éasca. Nílimid ag iarraidh ar na póiliíní anseo._" He set the pen down in front of Murphy and nudged him towards the clipboard the nurse was holding out.

He sighed, and then he winced as he grasped the clipboard. White hot pain exploded in his wrist and he swore sharply and dropped the clipboard with a clatter. "Ah _fuck_!"

The nurse behind the desk frowned as she took in the reddened and bruised sight of Murphy's mangled wrist and thumb. "Are you okay, sir? Do you need someone to look after that?"

"He can take care o'himself, lass," Connor rasped as he looked at Murphy who was stubbornly signing with his good hand. "Thank ya. Sorry about this," he added with a solemn gaze.

"It's okay," the nurse relented softly, watching Murphy toss the pen and jog up the hallway.

Pam followed him, coffee forgotten at the nurses' station, but was stopped by Connor with a soft smile. "Give 'em a minute ta be alone, aye?"

Pam shook her head. "She's not alone in there."

"What?" Connor asked. He hurried to the door, Pam close behind, and pushed inside.

Muprhy stood at her bedside, hands hanging limply at his sides, his eyes sweeping over her, so small and too fucking pale. There was no one else in the room and Pam paused. "Where did he…"

Connor grasped her sleeve and pulled her back to the door. "I need ta talk to ya, lass," he whispered.

Pam looked closely at Connor, at the weariness in his eyes, and frowned. Ryan was forgotten. She'd never seen Connor like this. Her guts twisted. "What's wrong?" she asked lowly.

Connor hesitated while he fumbled over words. "It's…it's Roc, aye? He…he didn't…" Connor scowled at his lack of eloquence; it didn't happen often. He swiped at a tear and scrubbed his hands through his hair. "Roc's dead, lass. An' we…met our Da."

* * *

"Murphy?"

He blinked out of his trance and stared down at her. Her eyes were still closed but beneath the covers that were drawn up to her chest, he detected tiny movements most likely born of discomfort. Had she really said his name, or had he just imagined it?

His mind swam with an overlaod of images and words and feelings and he reeled slightly and slumped into a chair that was near the bed. Cautiously, he reached out and wrapped Wren's pale fingers with his own. "Girl, I'm right here," he whispered. "An' shit is so fucked up now…" he chuckled ruefully, remembering Rocco's last words but the reality of his friend's death had not yet set in. "My Da," he muttered, before wiping at his eyes. He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly before looking back into Wren's vacant face. "I need ya ta be alright, girl," he murmured, squeezing her fingers. "Cuz nothin' else is."

"Murphy."

This time he was sure she said it, and finally, her eyes began to flutter as the beeping on the machine picked up its pace. He watched her struggle to open her eyes, watched her focus and glance about the room, and then finally, her gaze settled on him. The smile she gave him was the most genuine he'd ever seen from her.

"Hey," he whispered, bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing her knuckles. His lips were pressed together in a tight smile and his eyes shone brightly.

"What," she started with a croak. She frowned and gave a small, dry cough, wincing as she did so, and she tried to push herself up in bed.

"Take it easy," Murphy grinned, putting a stilling hand on her shoulder. He moved and got her a glass of water from the pitcher on the side table and held it to her mouth for her to sip.

When she'd swallowed a few mouthfuls, she turned her head away and tried her voice again. "What happened?"

"Ya got shot," Murphy stated plainly.

Wren nodded, closing her eyes. "Thought so. Fucking hurts."

"You've been out since they brought you in last night." He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and it shuddered as it left his lungs. Tears began to silently roll down his cheek.

"Hey," she whispered. "I'm here now, right?"

Murphy nodded, not trusting his voice, and bowed his head, bringing her hand to his mouth once more. Seconds later, her felt her free hand struggle and finally reach his shoulder and then comb through the hair at the back of his head.

Her lips brushed his ear. "I love you," she stated gently.

"N'I love you." His voice was muffled. "I didn't think I'd ever talk to ya again," he admitted.

"Can't get rid of me that easily," Wren joked. "I've been through worse."

"You don't have ta, not anymore," Murphy replied hurriedly, lifting his head.

Wren nodded, her eyes slipping shut. "Okay," she whispered.

She must have been exhausted. Murphy watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, heard the beep-beep of the heart monitor slow to a steady pace…and then it slowed again. Skipped…stuttered…paused…

And then it flatlined.

* * *

He was shoved aside by doctors and nurses, a crash cart was wheeled in, and in the chaos, he heard his brother calling for some sort of information. It was like a dream, some horrible nightmare, where he couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but watch.

BP eighty over sixty and falling. Left lung collapsed. Blood draining around heart chamber. Cardiac arrest. Charge to two hundred.

Clear.

And nothing.

Get a line in there to drain it. There's no time. Losing her. Again. Charge to two-fifty.

Clear.

"Sir, you can't be in here," he heard a frantic voice say.

But he couldn't move. He stared, frozen, dumb.

"Sir!"

"Starting CPR!" someone called.

He counted with them. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand.

Breathe.

"Breathe," he mumbled.

They started the count again.

"Breathe," he said sharply, a little louder.

And still they counted, and the heart rate monitor let out its ominous, blaring siren.

It was an eternity. It was over in seconds. Too soon and not soon enough. The doctor, the one leading the charge, stepped back and, hands held out and bloodied, glanced at the clock on the wall.

"Call it," another voice rang out.

The doctor sighed and hung her head for a moment. "Time of death: twelve seventeen am."

* * *

_An Irish Translation:_

_Tóg é deartháir éasca. Nílimid ag iarraidh ar na póiliíní anseo_: Take it easy, brother. We don't want the police here.

* * *

end.


End file.
